


The Light That Shines Behind Your Eyes

by AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha



Series: Stop Crying Your Heart Out [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha/pseuds/AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post TRF AU, sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/337945">"Stop Crying Your Heart Out"</a>. Sherlock makes a deal with the Devil in order to protect his friends. Jim Moriarty may be determined to keep him closer than ever, but Sherlock isn't beaten yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Groundwork

Part 1: The Groundwork

The sun shone bright and high in the middle of the sky, blazing mercilessly on their heads. Not a single cloud could be seen in the vast horizon.

Jim hadn’t been pleased about coming in person to the poverty-stricken country, but incredibly enough, the place was the closest thing he had to a base of operations—when it came to arms dealing, anyway—and when something went wrong, he had to come and fix it himself. It was only natural.

His mood was sour for the entire flight, uncharacteristic in its consistency. He hated taking care of business personally. It made things, well, personal.

Sherlock watched the unfolding scene from where he had been leaning idly against their vehicle, hands in his pockets. His face was largely obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat—not a deerstalker, thank God.

Their rendezvous point was in the middle of nowhere, even by the standards of this hostile land. They were surrounded by vast oceans of hard sand and dry patches of vegetation. In the midst of all this was James Moriarty, sitting cross-legged on his throne.

The chair looked ludicrous enough, smack in the desert. It was a huge, gaudy thing. Its former owner was kneeling at Jim's feet, bleeding from a nasty cut on his head.

The man was the infamous dictator of the country. He was taken from his extravagant home (some would say “palace,” but the man was no king), alongside his throne (actual, honest to God _throne_ ) in the dead of the night. Jim had specifically asked for the seat. Sherlock rather hoped he wouldn’t start lugging the thing around with him wherever they went. It was really quite atrocious.

The sniveling creature kneeling at Jim’s feet was responsible for numerous crimes against his people and beyond. But of course Jim cared very little about such things. The crime for which he will be punished today was losing millions of euros worth of weaponry, none of which bore the country’s official COO, but that was beside the point. The weapons were intended to be sold to the governments of different conflicting nations. Jim thought that supplying both sides of the fight had been absolutely hilarious, even more so as none of the countries were at war. Officially. 

As it happened, the supplies reached their targets successfully, avoiding customs laws beautifully, crates all accounted for but for the fact that every single unit was a dud. Seems there was a problem in the production line, repair being nigh impossible under those conditions. The worst one could do with the defective M16s would be to turn them into oddly shaped bats. Imagine Jim’s embarrassment.

Well, embarrassment wasn’t the word. Murderous rage, perhaps. The fact was: the entire supply line was DOA, a mix up that was, as far as Jim was concerned, entirely the fault of the hapless dictator…who technically was the supplier, and Jim’s client. He hated when business partners didn't keep to their end of the bargain. It was completely unprofessional.

The dictator’s tongue was cut off, and he was left to wander in the desert heat alone. Jim was gracious enough to leave him his throne. By nightfall, a new leader was announced from the ranks of the opposition. Riots had broken out before dawn.

“What did you think?” Jim asked Sherlock during the bumpy car ride back to the out-of-service airport, where a private plane was waiting for them (“out-of-service” meant very little these days). It was just the two of them in the dusty old jeep now. 

Sherlock stared at the open expense of land through his window. He didn’t bother turning to address the man. “Politics. Hmm, dull.”

The other man rubbed his knee fondly. “I _know_ ,” he intoned.

The car jumped violently, hitting yet another nasty bump in the poorly constructed road. Jim cursed colourfully, driving fast despite the horrid conditions. It was probably safer when they were out driving in the open desert.

Sherlock suddenly realised they were not where they were supposed to be. He’d glanced at the map before they arrived but even if he hadn’t, judging by the position of the sun and the time of the day, he could tell they were not heading in the correct direction.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

“ _No_ ,” Jim answered, mouth twisting disdainfully around the word.

“Quite sure?”

“I know _exactly_ where we are.”

“So you’d know the airport is that way.” Sherlock jerked his head in the opposite direction. “Or would you like to stop and ask for directions?” he said, motioning toward the ocean of sand surrounding the road.

They drove on for several more minutes, while Jim muttered heatedly under his breath. Eventually he slammed his foot down on the brakes. 

“Fuck!” he screamed, and made a sharp U-turn. “If you say another word about this, I will _smite you_ ,” Jim hissed.

Sherlock’s lips quirked in amusement; he turned his face away so Jim wouldn’t see, though he said nothing.

XXX

Sherlock curled sideways on an expensive, plump armchair. His long legs were dangling over one of the chair’s armrests, head supported by the other. He was engrossed in the book in his hands, eyes following the script quite rapidly.

The door to the hotel suite was flung open with a bang.

“ _Where have you been_?” a voice screeched from the doorway. 

Sherlock calmly flipped a page in his book. He learned a long time ago not to react to Jim’s little outbursts.

“Right here…?” he said, raising a single eyebrow.

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, my love. It does not become you,” Jim growled. “You weren't here from 15:43 to 15:58.” He approached Sherlock’s seat, and stood by the armrest, glaring down. He loved it so when Sherlock had to look up at him.

“Where were you?” Jim asked.

“Oh.” Sherlock reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a packet of gum. “Spying on me again, Jim?” he rolled his eyes when the man grabbed the packet from his hand, examining it suspiciously.

“I was just down by the hotel shop. I'm out of nicotine patches,” Sherlock scowled, “They didn't have any.”

Jim pulled out a piece of gum from the packet, and tossed it back to Sherlock. He seemed appeased, but then again, his sudden mood swings never last for very long anyway. He grimaced at the book in Sherlock's hands.

“And since when do you read Arabic?”

“I’ve had a few free afternoons,” Sherlock replied. 

He didn’t respond when Jim grabbed the book from his hands, glanced at the contents briefly before throwing it uncaringly over one shoulder. Nor did he respond when his dressing gown was pulled open, Jim’s smooth palms moving over the expanse of his skin. His head was tilted down to hang over the armrest, chin pointing to the ceiling. Jim bent down from the waist to press his lips against Sherlock’s; their mouths moved opposite one another.

Jim drew back, thumb rubbing at Sherlock’s wet lips before slipping inside his mouth, allowing Sherlock to suck on the digit.

“No teeth, now,” Jim crooned, and replaced the thumb with his prick. He popped the gum into his mouth, and threw his head back in pleasure. He supported the back of Sherlock’s neck with one hand, throat stretched taut to accept Jim's length at the odd angle.

Jim fucked his mouth enthusiastically, watching in fascination as Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed in time with each of his thrusts. He pressed his hand against Sherlock’s throat so he could feel the movements under the skin, his thumb digging into pale flesh.

“Touch yourself, yes, that's it,” he instructed, and Sherlock complied.

When it was over, Sherlock rinsed his mouth with mint-flavoured mouthwash, and then returned to his book. He learned to acquiesce to those kinds of demands a long time ago.

When the book was read and discarded he turned to the violin instead—always with him on these trips—drawing loud, inarticulate noises at random until Jim threw something his way and screamed at him to shut up.

Sherlock stopped. Eventually.

XXX

Once, early into their…association, Jim broke a glass bottle on Sherlock’s head. The cut bled furiously, as head injuries are wont to do, and Jim had to bring in a professional to treat Sherlock's injury.

After his head was stitched, Jim pulled out a handgun and shot the good doctor straight in the eye, point blank.

Sherlock still has a scar that begins just above his eyebrow and disappears into his hairline.

XXX

Jim conducted most of his business out of sight, never making direct contact unless absolutely necessary.

That did not mean he stayed very far; on the contrary, they traveled more often than not (Jim rarely left Sherlock alone, and never unsupervised), yet Jim’s clients hardly meet him in person. The ones who have never lived long enough to tell a soul. The outcome was about fifty-fifty for those who were lucky enough to only hear his voice.

Jim’s public persona died when James Moriarty was erased from most governments’ most wanted lists as some sort of hoax. They knew better, of course, but Jim had clients in very high places that were more than happy to pretend he never existed.

His name remained legendary; most of the people who knew of him before the whole trial fiasco were too paranoid to believe he truly did not exist, or that the person who supposedly used the name “Moriarty” as an alias, one Sherlock Holmes, was really dead and gone. No, Jim’s face belonged to an unemployed actor by the name of Richard Brook now.

Despite it all, Jim had a group of business associates with whom he interacted on a more personal level. Those associates could be classified under one of two categories: his inner circle and outer circle.

His inner circle was a small collection of individuals, his “Made Men.” Most of them had very little to do with one another. They came from all sorts of backgrounds, scattered in various parts of the globe. They were the heads of crime rings, informants, his most loyal henchmen, a number of gentlemen with regular, normal jobs (who were anything but) and, bizarrely, one surly young man in his teens. Jim said he had potential.

The second group was larger, and highly dispensable. Regular low-rate thugs to smarmy politicians, those were the people who hoped to move into Jim’s inner circle. More often than not they stopped moving altogether.

Among his underlings, two men stood out the most: the first was Jim’s own little brother, unbeknown to the rest of them. The name he used wasn’t Moriarty, but his acting skills left much to be desired, hardly comparable to Jim’s own. It took Sherlock less than a minute to deduce his true identity. Moriarty Junior was not pleased, but his older brother had been delighted. Sherlock was mostly disappointed.

The second man was a sniper for hire who went by code name “the Colonel” professionally (and Sherlock could not resist the urge to roll his eyes when the moniker was revealed. At times he felt like a character in one of those spy movies John enjoyed so much). Sebastian Moran was utterly, relentlessly loyal to James Moriarty. His genuine devotion earned him the second-best position in Jim’s organization, at least until Sherlock came along.

The animosity between Sherlock and Sebastian was apparent from the day the two met. Jim was rather amused by their squabbles; he obviously thought they were fighting for his attention. In all honestly, Sherlock just missed having someone around to antagonize.

“Sebastian Moran, back from the killing fields. Target missed _again,_ I presume?”

“Fuck you.”

“As eloquent as always, Sebastian,” Sherlock said with surprisingly little malice.

Their exchanges were always brief and haughty. Sherlock was honestly puzzled by the former military man, his reverence for his boss bordering on insanity in a man so absolutely grounded everywhere else.

It was his attraction to danger, Sherlock realised with a pang of wistfulness, which drew him in like a moth to a flame. And Jim Moriarty did indeed _burn._

“Do you ever wonder what will happen when he gets bored of you?” Sebastian asked him once.

“Do you?” Sherlock answered.

The man scowled at Sherlock, “I’m useful to him.”

“Until someone better comes along.”

Sebastian smirked. “My thoughts exactly.”

“You obviously don't know me very well, Sebastian,” Sherlock told him, voice far away.

XXX

Jim was making popcorn, whistling cheerfully to himself. Sherlock could hear him from where he’d been sitting slumped in front of the television, the strong buttery smell assaulting his nose. The television was on, and Sherlock had been under strict orders not to change the channel. He listened to the news anchor drawl on, contemplating disobedience under the excuse of preserving his overall sanity, when a scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen caught his eye.

_“Next: Richard Brook comes forward to battle fraud allegations made by the public • Police investigation into criminal activities of fake genius Sherlock Holmes continues.”_

Sherlock immediately sat up straighter, attention now fixed at the screen. 

“Is it starting?” Jim chose that moment to appear, clutching a giant tube of popcorn to his chest. He shoved the tube at Sherlock and collapsed into the sofa, cuddling against Sherlock's side.

Jim shoved a fistful of the oily snack into his mouth, speaking around it, “Oh, wonderful.”

“Sherlock Holmes: fraud or a misunderstood genius? Joining with us tonight is Richard Brook, who for the first time in almost two years has decided to come forward and share his own side of the story.” The news anchor read out from her teleprompter.

The image of the conventionally attractive news anchor was replaced with Sherlock's own, face mostly obscured behind his coat collar and that damned hat.

“Almost two years ago today, the truly baffling case of Sherlock Holmes, self- proclaimed ‘consulting detective,’ came to an abrupt end when the so-called detective jumped to his death from the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s hospital. Holmes had resisted arrest earlier that day when it became known he had not only orchestrated his entire life’s work, but was otherwise involved in serious criminal activities all over the world. Two years after the fact, the official investigation still continues, with new evidence coming up every day.

“To this day, some say that Holmes had been framed by the same criminal mastermind he had invented. James Moriarty, who police confirms does not exist. The most vocal supporter in Holmes’ cause is Dr. John Watson, who was Holmes’ partner in many of his investigations.”

“Joining us tonight: Richard Brook, the very face behind James Moriarty, as created by Sherlock Holmes.”

The camera panned back to reveal Jim himself sitting by the news anchor. He was dressed in a smart suit, not one of his usual overly priced ones, but not of bad quality. His hair was slicked back and his face was made up for the camera. Physically, he looked the same as always, but at the same time completely different. He smiled a little nervously, body language cautious and guarded.

“Thank you for coming.” The news anchor smiled at him

“Thank you for having me,” “Rich” said. 

“Rich, you were the first person to come forward with concrete proof of the game Holmes had been playing with the public. Yourself being said proof, growing up with Sherlock Holmes, not to mention being hired to play the part of the arch-villain in the story,” the reporter laughed a bit, “tell me, why did you wait so long to speak?”

“Rich” grimaced, and took a sip of water before replying. “I’m not proud of what I did. In the beginning I really thought it was just a harmless prank. It was an acting gig and I was desperate for work at the time. By the time I realised something was seriously off, I was already too far gone into the role to stop…That’s the first reason, Anne. The second being I was simply afraid,” he said.

“What made you change your mind?” 

“People were seriously ending up hurt…I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t.”

“Can you say you are relived he’s gone?” the reporter asked.

“I honestly didn’t know Sherlock was going to go and kill himself,” “Rich” said, “but even if I did, I’m not sure I would have done anything to stop him. That’s a horrible thing to admit to, but yeah, the world’s better off with him gone. He was always a little…out there. I can honestly say as time went by I was becoming more and more afraid for my life.”

Jim began to rub his eyes, sniffing audibly, “I still am,” he said in a cracking voice, “it hasn’t gotten better since he died. There are still people out there that are looking for me, people that believe his stories.”

“You are talking about the movement to clear Holmes’ name?”

“Yeah, they’re one of the reasons I had to keep a low profile ever since the truth came out. I’ve been getting death threats, hate mail…my mum keeps getting phone calls in the middle of the night.” He wiped a tear from his face. “I have nothing against Dr. Watson. I think he's a good man who got caught up in Sherlock's game. Sherlock had this way about him, he could get you to believe whatever he wanted, I’m not surprised he’s still got followers.”

“What would you say to Dr. Watson if you could speak to him now?” the news anchor asked, her voice thick with undisguised sympathy.

“I’d tell him I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for things to escalate the way they did…And to move on. Whatever they had going between them, Sherlock is gone now, he's not coming back...Ever,” he said, looking straight at the camera.

XXX

Even Sherlock couldn’t stay on his guard 24/7. Not when the other man was always close by.

Sherlock’s role in Jim’s organization was vague at best. In the beginning he kept to watching Jim work, and Jim was content in letting him. Sherlock could not deny being fascinated by Jim’s mind, his weaving and plotting, aware of what buttons to push and whose strings needed pulling. Sherlock was looking at crime scenes in progress.

As time went by, Sherlock began to involve himself in Jim's plans. He argued with the man often, watched over Jim's shoulder while Jim's fingers danced over the keyboard, making comments and pointing out things Jim had missed.

Sometimes they even laughed together, appalled by the stupidity of the average person or simply by force of circumstance. It didn't matter the reason, Sherlock still felt the guilt after, worse than being forced to hurt another human or having to endure hurt to his own being. He felt the most guilty when he was comfortable around the other man.

These days, Sherlock didn't have to face Jim to know when the man was looking at him. He knew the adoring expression on the other man's face by heart. Whether it was genuine or make-believe, he still didn't know, stopped trying to gauge years ago. Half of him reckoned Jim was attempting to fool himself. Sherlock wondered if it worked.

One night as they lay in bed, Jim wriggled under Sherlock's arm to rest his cheek against the other's chest, Sherlock's heart thudding steadily in his ear.

"Say it," he told Sherlock.

"I'll be lying."

"Say it anyway," Jim insisted. 

Sherlock said nothing, but he could not keep his heart from beating a little faster. Jim smiled in contentment, fingers ghosting on Sherlock's skin.

That night, Jim was gentle, his touch slow and careful, and all they did was exchange kisses.

Sherlock thought he didn't mind it all that much.

XXX

55° 45′ 6″ N, 37° 37′ 4″ E  
55.751667, 37.617778  
ETA 12:00 PM UTC+3   
Explosives, precise location unknown.   
Evacuate area.  
[Msg. Received Tue. 23:04]

 

**Acknowledged.  
[Msg. Sent Tue. 23:07]**

**Your status?  
[Msg. Sent Tue. 23:08]**

 

Yellow.  
[Msg. Received Tue. 23:15]

 

**Extraction?  
[Msg. Sent Tue. 23:17]**

**???  
[Msg. Sent Tue. 23:54]**

 

Not yet.   
Stand by.  
[Msg. Received Wed. 01:54]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 03/03/2012 - Chapter revised and some of the errors have been corrected.  
> A/N 25/03/2012 - This chapter was beta read by light_frost (Livejournal). Thank you!


	2. The Sleeper

Part 2: The Sleeper

Mobiles, computers, even _mailboxes_ were forbidden to him. He knew, from experience, that there will be… punishment, if he was ever found. Such items always littered the quaint little cottage they occupied between their travels (home, his mind supplied/questioned), computers left unlocked, tablets and mobile phones scattered about in odd places, as if forgotten. All intentional, of course, and monitored closely, no doubt. Sherlock didn't dare touch any of it. Jim's talent with electronic devices was insidious. 

Using a mobile like that was risky. He nicked it from one of Jim's freelancing associates, and discarded its unassembled pieces at the first opportunity (luckily, acid was always an abundantly available commodity in their home.) Sherlock and his contact were always careful not to call each other by name, as little as that would do to help him if the messages were ever discovered.

Still, they had worked out a system, using mostly colours to signify Sherlock's condition, physical or otherwise. Knowing extraction was only a keystroke away made it somewhat easier for Sherlock. He almost used it a few times; when it was too much, too much for him to simply grit his teeth and bear, (his first night came to mind and he quickly shoved the thought away, knowing that attempting to delete it again would be pointless). 

The colours they used were a simple ladder from green to red, and Sherlock learned to be truthful in his assessments; his contact would know if he was lying, he had his ways. The system was the closest thing the two of them had come to simply inquire about each other's wellbeing in years. It was almost civil. Sherlock wondered how much the other knew, aside from what Sherlock disclosed. Probably more than Sherlock was comfortable in revealing, he thought, vaguely horrified. 

Sherlock had only resorted to direct contact in the most dire of circumstances. His contact knew not to attempt to communicate with him through the same channel twice. Both of them had to be quick and discreet if they ever hoped to be successful. 

Sherlock only discovered the final details by sheer luck. The information was positively vital to set the plan in motion. The hit spanned months in planning, high profile cases usually did, but he did not know the location or time of the attack until the very last moment. He did not have time to come up with an indirect method of communications; he knew he had to deliver his message with haste.

Usually, he and his contact used codes, ciphers; random notes drawn from the violin in hotel suits, heard loud and clear in the adjacent room. A halfway filled game of Soduko left somewhere discarded, numbers pointing to specific words in a book (and wasn't it fun to use Jim's own system against him?), and so on. Never did they use the same code more than once. Sometimes he even made them up on the spot, when he spotted an opportunity and had to be quick about it. It wasn't important; he knew his contact would crack the codes as soon as his agents brought them to him.

Once his message had been delivered all Sherlock could do was wait. 

The attack was a world-class event, and would have had a huge effect on international politics. Jim did like to cause trouble. 

The media was in frenzy the next day, the event covered extensively by every major news network worldwide. The bombing took place at noon, by Moscow time, causing devastating damage to the historic structure. Miraculously, a fire drill went off mere minutes prior to the attack, saving countless of lives in the process. 

Political and defense analysts argued extensively on the air, both the president and prime minister of the turbulent government came out of their secured hiding place to reassure the public of both the president's survival (who had been in residence at the time of the bombing) as well as to denounce the malicious act of terrorism.

The only confirmed casualty of the attack was a single old Russian woman, seen in the security footage of the facility (uploaded immediately unto servers an thus providing exact Intel on her movements. No one knew who leaked the footage to the press.) She had been tiny, despite being bundled up in layers. She seemed harmless enough, which partially explained why security was so lax in regards to her person. How harmful could one elderly woman be? 

The cameras followed her movements in the facility until she locked herself in a women's toilet. It was the location of the center point of the explosion that destroyed a large section of the building. 

The woman was an old relic of the Soviet Union, and a true believer in The Cause. Jim thought that was just _hilarious_. 

Later in the day a formerly unknown terrorist cell released a video unto the web, taking responsibility for the attack and detailing their intentions – to be rid of the oppressing government by striking a devastating blow against one of their leaders and their symbol of power.

According to leading Internet polls, support for the government rose by 140% overnight. 

Sherlock lay curled on the sofa, knees drawn to his chest. His back was turned to the telly, and his eyes were closed. He made no reaction to the broadcast, and although he was listening intently, he made no show of it. 

He could hear the furious tapping from Jim's blackberry. The man had been at it all morning. Jim rarely minded when a plan went belly up; he found it fascinating when he made a miscalculation, gleeful about the unexpected _challenge_.

But, _that_ , that was just insulting. The fire drill was a cock-up, there had been none planned that day. Someone had tipped the authorities about the incoming attack. The small number of people involved in the case suggested that the leak came from inside Jim's organization. Not even the client knew the timing. Jim couldn't wait to get his hands on the traitor and personally see to their gruesome end. 

"It's obvious isn't it?" Sherlock responded sleepily to Jim's rant, although he was wide awake and alert, every nerve in his body tingling. Showtime. 

Jim paused, his breath exiting loudly from his chest. He stalked over to Sherlock and forced him to roll on his back. "What is? What did I miss?" Jim grumbled, annoyance written all over his face. 

Sherlock swallowed a wince. His back was aching. Last night Jim had been extremely enthusiastic, taking his excitement out on Sherlock. It wasn't unexpected; Sherlock was usually the first person in the line of fire when these things happened. Although he despised politics, Jim loved political assassinations; he loved the chaos they brought in their wake. 

"Really Jim, sentiment?" Sherlock murmured, "I wouldn't have expected it from you."

Jim's face twisted as if Sherlock had uttered a particularly distasteful curse word. 

"What on earth are you babbling about?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Babbling_? Honestly. He sighed in annoyance before answering, "Who else was privy to the location of the bombs? It wasn't any one of your lackeys, none of them had anything to gain by it, and none of them could have known the precise time except for the bomber, and we both know she followed through. Not to mention that now the client goes missing?" 

As if on cue, the news chime in with a report that there was still no word of the high ranking government official, who disappeared on the morning of the bombing. His image blared on the screen.

"Think about, Jim, who could possibly have anything to gain by it? And had access to the information in time to warn the Russian government?" 

"My dear, I believe you are losing your touch. The old bitch did blow herself up, remember?" Jim told him, but Sherlock could tell the seed of a doubt had been planted.

"Perhaps, but the government had just as much to benefit from the attack as the client. And none of them wound up dead in the end," He shrugged, and curled back on to his side, facing the sofa cushions. He was careful not to smile even with his face almost entirely hidden. He did not need to walk Jim through the entire thought process; he just needed to point him in the right direction, Jim would do the rest on his own. 

Follow the money trail. Consider all possibilities. Observe all the facts. If some of the clues had been planted… Well. It was sweet irony, knowing that his time in Jim's company finally turned him into the fraud Jim convinced the world he was.

 

XXX

 

Night fell, and Sherlock bided his time.

"We'll have a few guests coming tonight." Jim told him distractedly, raising his eyes briefly from the computer screen to meet Sherlock's eyes. He returned his gaze to the monitor, expression displeased. 

The front door swung open at midnight, Sebastian Moran striding confidently into the room. They exchanged un-pleasantries, but Sherlock was working on autopilot. Moran was an unexpected parameter. Sherlock would have to thread carefully tonight. 

He fought the urge to steeple his hands. 

An hour later, the guest of honour arrived. The Frenchman was tall and dark haired, dressed in an impeccable business suit, looking nothing like he just emerged from a gruelling cross-continental journey. 

"Ah, monsieur Moriarty," He greeted Jim with exaggerated air kisses, and Sherlock snorted. An unconscious man was dragged into the room behind him, and the Frenchman snapped his fingers toward the cellar. 

"I brought you a _modeste présente_ ," the man said silkily 

" _Présent_ ," Sherlock said pointedly, correcting the man's pronunciation.

The Frenchman scowled but continued, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken, "It seems our friend from downstairs is responsible for our unfortunate incident. My apologies, mon ami," The man intoned smoothly. He had been in charge of the entire failed operation in Russia, the liaison between them and their client - the government official who commissioned the attack, whose intention was to leave key government positions available, and at the same time create countless martyrs for the Russian governments. 

Jim smiled and gestured toward the cellar, "Shall we?"

The cellar was the first room Sherlock ever laid eyes on when he was first brought to this house, almost three years ago. It was a bleak, sinister room. Sherlock had come to spend more time in it than he would have liked to, both as an observer, and occasionally, as the focus of Jim's attention.

The brutes working under the Frenchman finished strapping the unconscious man to the chair by his hands and ankles. They stood back, waiting for orders. Jim stalked closer to the man and lifted the dark bag covering his head. The face that was revealed under it was not one unfamiliar to them. He was one of countless underlings - perhaps particularly vicious - but not anyone special. His ordinary face was overlaid with bruises and dried blood. Jim placed the cover back on the man's head, wiping his hands on the other's shirt.

He turned to the two lackeys, "Out," He snarled. They didn't need to be told twice, leaving only the four of them – Jim, Sherlock, Moran and the Frenchman – alone in the room. 

Jim turned to his guest. "Give me your phone," He demanded, hand outstretched. 

The man visibly blenched, " _Pourquoi_?"

Jim did not answer. Without having to be ordered, Moran moved to grab the Frenchman, wrenching the mobile from the man's pocket. He presented the mobile to his boss, who smiled cheerfully in return. 

"Thank you, dear," Jim said.

Jim got the pass code on the phone correctly after two tries. He plunged into the phone's contents. 

Jim's cheerfully demeanour disappeared completely after a mere minute of browsing. He hissed angrily, flashing his teeth. Everyone in the room was completely focused on him. 

Jim pointed the screen at the gaping Frenchmen, "You couldn't even delete the picture? God. You're even dumber than I remembered," The mobile's screen showed an image of the client, or rather, what remained of the man. Sherlock caught a small glimpse of the text (' _it's done_ '), before Jim threw the phone at the Frenchman's head.

" _Idiot_!" Jim yelled furiously. 

The man blinked rapidly, accent deteriorating quickly, _"Mais, mon ami, c'est de la démence. Je ne vois pas comment-"_

"Will you stop using that ridiculous fake accent? My ears are bleeding. On second thought, feel free not to talk at all," Sherlock snapped.

The man spluttered indignantly, face reddening. His façade dropped. His next words came accented in a deep Irish brogue.

"Brother," He pleaded. "You're not seriously buying this story-"

"Shut up." Jim barked, and his brother fell silent immediately, "Good God. I should have smothered you in your sleep. Did you honestly think I wouldn't have found out about the money?" 

"What _money_?" the man half-screamed. 

"The money transferred to your bank account. Who the fuck do you think you're trying to scam. Me?!" Jim screamed, voice going hoarse.

Silence fell in the room, only to be broken a few moments later when Jim began to giggle suddenly, madly. Moran stood by him, watching the unfolding scene in undisguised fascination. 

Moriarty the Younger swallowed, and then slowly turned to Sherlock.

"This is all your doing, isn't it?" 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, " _Pardon_?" he said in a mock French accent. 

"You planned this. You were involved in the case from the beginning. There could have been no one else," He never took his eyes off of Sherlock while his hand reached to the back of his trousers slowly. 

He turned to his brother, who hissed at him in warning, " _James_." 

"James?!" Moran blurted out in surprise.

Sherlock was surprised also, but hide it well. He quickly put the pieces together. 

"Ah, yes." He said, "Didn't you know, Sebastian? Jim adopted his own brother's name as an alias. As for Moriarty the Stupid…" He frowned at the shaking man, "What were you calling yourself again?"

"Shut up!" The real James Moriarty screamed, clutching his head. "This is all your fault." He said, addressing neither of them in particular, "Things have been going straight to shit ever since you brought him along." He wrenched the firearm from his trousers, turning to Sherlock, but before he had time to aim and shoot, a gunshot went off in the room. 

Sherlock reeled back with a gasp, unable to prevent the man's blood from splattering his face. His ears were ringing, and he was grateful for the gun's silencer. He regained his composure and glanced at the two other men still standing. 

Jim considered the smoking gun in his hand. He raised a single eyebrow and flexed his neck muscles slowly before lowering his eyes to his brother's still form on the floor. He remained quiet for several long moments. 

"Oh well," Jim said finally, and tossed the gun sideways at Moran, who caught it out of pure instinct, cursing. Moran disarmed the weapon with a few practiced moves, the loud click of a virgin discharge echoing in the room. 

"Get someone to clean this mess up, will you?" Jim said to his second in command before climbing up the stairs. 

Sebastian looked at Sherlock then, questioningly.

"You should do what he says." Sherlock told him softly and stepped over the body. He paused, "I suppose he would have liked to be buried next to Mother." He murmured before resuming his steps. 

He could feel Sebastian's eyes boring into his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Look Ma, I can do plot.  
> A/N #2 - I know very little about Russian politics, I should probably mention. Also, I can't speak French. Which is good, because neither can Moriarty Junior :D  
> A/N #3 - 03.03.2012 - chapter revised slightly and errors corrected.  
> A/N ֳ4 - 24.05.2012 - merci to HyphenL for helping with the French :)


	3. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - This part borrows elements from ACD's "The Adventure of the Empty House".

Part 3: The House

 

 

_Text version:_

_**The Personal Blog of John H. Watson** _

_**Three Years** _

_Three years ago today I've lost the best friend I've ever had. It's hard to believe he's been gone for three whole years now. Sometimes it feels like it was only yesterday. I still have his number saved on my mobile. I can't quite bring myself to delete it._

_He'd probably call it sentiment and roll his eyes, the idiot._

_Over the years so many of you have come forward with your support. The people who knew him, the people he helped, even the people he condemned. All of you who knew he was real and raised your voices to say so. I can't say it enough, how much I appreciate all of your efforts. Some days were truly frustrating (that rubbish interview over the BBC comes to mind) but I'm sure if we continue to push, we'll be able to make NSY reopen the inquiry and bring him justice. If nothing else, the public needs to know that James Moriarty is real and dangerous._

_There are so many open questions yet. I've stopped by the old flat this morning; just to catch up with Mrs. Hudson over a cup of tea. She told me there was a break in a few nights ago. Nothing of value was stolen as far as she and I could tell, but then again, one can never know. Sherlock had so much stuff. I'm sure Moriarty is behind this, somehow. Sherlock is dead and he still won't leave him alone._

_Sherlock's brother still pays the rent on the flat, practically keeps the place as a shrine, the git. It's eerie. Like Sherlock's about to come through the door any moment now._

_Here's to you, Sherlock Holmes, you were the best man I've ever known and I am, and always will be, proud to call you my friend. May you find peace, wherever you are._

_John H. Watson  
_

 

Jim sat on the sofa with his legs propped up on the coffee table, Sherlock's head in his lap. Sherlock stared blankly at the ceiling while Jim ran his fingers through his dark hair. 

A red, heart shaped box of chocolates lay half open on the table before them, hardly touched. A fresh flowers bouquet sat beside it. It was their three years anniversary. Jim was surprisingly uninspired with his gifts that year. Perhaps the routine was finally getting to him.

The year before that he brought Sherlock a human heart, red bow placed inconspicuously on its cooling container. At least that had been useful, although Sherlock hardly thought the poor bastard the heart belonged had agreed to donate his organs to science.

Jim held a sleek tablet in his one hand. He had been reading out loud from John's latest blog entry. 

"Isn't that sweet?" Jim cooed. Sherlock didn't reply and the hand in his hair tightened momentarily before relaxing, "Amazing the length people will go to cover up their guilt."

Sherlock pulled himself up from Jim's hold, he was on his feet in an instant but his arm was grabbed before he could walk away. He allowed himself to be pulled into the man's lap. 

Jim cupped his cheeks in his hands, and kissed Sherlock slowly, with tenderness. Sherlock tasted his breath. Jim's hands slide down to Sherlock's neck to rest there, not applying any pressure. He kissed and nibbled on Sherlock's earlobe. 

" _He's glad you're gone_ ," Jim breathed in his ear. "He's _happy_. He's got a sweet little fiancée and a _mortgage_ ," Jim said, shuddering at the thought. "Deep down, he does think you're a fraud."

"You obviously don't know John Watson," Sherlock murmured, unperturbed by Jim's accusations. 

Jim pulls back abruptly with a glare. "Don't pretend like you're unhappy here," He said, changing the subject. 

"I don't have to pretend," Sherlock replied with some difficulty when Jim applied the slightest pressure to his neck.

"Liar," Jim snarled, and graced him with a violent mockery of a kiss. Sherlock's lips were swollen by the time they disentangled. "You're never bored now. I make your life interesting, _my love_."

"I fail to see what that changes," Sherlock said, not bothering to deny the statement.

"Everything," Jim said with completely sincerity. He caressed Sherlock's cheek, "Remember that first night, when you cried?" 

Sherlock did not answer, but Jim hardly expected him to. Admitting weakness was never something either of them excelled at. 

"You don't cry anymore. Do it now, for me."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, and tears began to form in his eyes. They slid down his cheeks in perfect large droplets. Sherlock's expression never altered, the tears looking strange and alien on his unmoved face. 

Jim grabbed Sherlock by the chin and brought his face closer. He licked the tears away. 

"Perfect," Jim all but purred before violently shoving Sherlock off. Sherlock stumbled but managed to catch himself before he sprawled on the floor. 

"Take off your clothes," Jim ordered, before returning to his iPad. Sherlock saw he was typing an anonymous comment on John's blog. ('Behind you 110%, Johnny-Boy! xx').

Sherlock obeyed, practiced and nonchalant. When he stood naked in the room, Jim finally turned his attention back to Sherlock. Jim's expression was leering and Sherlock knew tonight will be a power display. He sighed mentally and braced himself. 

Jim rose from the sofa, setting the gadget carelessly aside. He looked at Sherlock up and down. 

" _Good boy_. Now kneel."

XXX

Three months had passed since the conclusion of the Russian case.

Their lives went back to normal straight away after the incident, as normal as it came for the two of them. If Jim was affected by the ordeal, Sherlock couldn't say. He hardly expected the man to grieve, not for his brother's death, in any case, but perhaps for the loss of one of his closest human connections.

As unloving and strange as their relationship was, Jim's brother was his only remaining link to his past. Sherlock could not predict the man's behaviour under the best of circumstances; he could hardly make a guess as to what was going on in Jim's mind now. 

So he waited, he waited for three months, hoping that if any delayed reaction was about to occur, it would happen during that time frame. A small part of him also wanted to allow Jim to come to terms with his loss, as ridiculous as that notion was, before dropping any more anvils on him. Sherlock told himself that it was only a logical course of action, but he didn't quite trust himself these days.

He had hardly been idle, though. His plan was already set in motion; there was no way to reverse the proceedings now. The game was on. The first step was to take the three people closest to Moriarty out of the equation.

The first was the brother, and that had played out marvellously. He had hoped for Jim to simply disown the man, but his expectations were more realistic. Disownment wasn't Jim's style, after all. Either way the result was the same.

The second person was Jim's second in command, "The Colonel", Sebastian Moran. And the man was playing into Sherlock's hands beautifully. As luck would have it, the proceedings in the cellar three months prior only served to strengthen Sherlock's hand.

He did not think the third person will pose much of a problem.

To think, Jim has been working all these years to remake Sherlock in his own image. He didn't know yet how well he accomplished that goal.

XXX

Less than two days after they celebrated their anniversary, Jim and Sherlock arrived in Dubai to meet with one of Jim's "business associates". The man was part of Jim's inner circle, brought to his position not because of his money or connections but because of his intellectual prowess and ambition. Those qualities made dealing with him all the more fun for Jim. They were not particularly loyal to one another, and Jim knew the man would probably attempt to get rid of him after the job was done. Very ambitious, indeed.

The job itself was boring in comparison to the implied danger they'd be facing afterwards. Jim brought Sebastian along for backup, but that was for later. He had no use of him for the time being. 

Jim went to observe the proceedings personally, disguised as one of his own underlings. Sherlock stayed behind in the hotel, citing boredom as an excuse. Perhaps to rub it in Jim's face. Jim grumbled but didn't push the point. He left him with Sebastian instead. Jim didn't trust Sherlock to be left alone, not after last time. That suited Sherlock's needs perfectly. 

"Fancy a game?" Sherlock offered. 

"A game?" 

Sherlock smiled and pulled out a sturdy case from the hotel's entertainment compartment. 

"Didn't take you for a Poker player, Sherlock," Sebastian murmured, watching as Sherlock nimbly sets the chips on the table. 

"I don't take you as a man for chess, Sebastian."

Sebastian smiled, and sat behind the table. "What are we playing for, exactly?" he asked. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "Money, of course. Do keep up."

"Fine. I'll deal."

They played in near silence for some time, their usual bickering absent for once. A good sign, Sherlock decided. 

"This reminds me of the night we met. Do you remember?" Sherlock asked offhandedly. 

Moran's reply arrived a beat too late. His poker face never dropped but Sherlock caught on to the slight tremor in his hands, "Of course." 

Sherlock studied his cards, face expressionless, and drew another one. 

"Not in person, of course. But you've made a very good impression. What was that boy's name…?" Sherlock shrugged, "You've always had a bit of a temper."

"Ron Adair." Sebastian said, not breaking eye contact. 

Sherlock was not actually involved in it, of course, but he studied the details of the case perfectly years ago, one could never know when information would come handy. The fact that the case involved Sebastian was just an educated guess. But Sherlock's guesses usually were. 

Jim wasn't the only one who could do a background check. Sherlock had been digging up all that he could find about James Moriarty ever since that fateful night in the pool. He'd come across a peculiar story about a none-descript young man, barely out of his teens. The young man still lived at home with his mother, their flat six floors up. 

He was found dead in front of his computer with a bullet hole in his head. He'd been playing online poker, a very illegal game by the looks of it. Shame, he he'd been winning. 

Neither did the killer nor the murder weapon were ever found. Police were baffled (aren't they always?) for ballistics report showed that the bullet could not have been fired from a long range rifle, yet the shot was clearly fired through the open window. The door to the room was locked from the inside.

However, No building overlooked the window, not for a fair distance anyway. There was no way for the killer to have climbed in, not without being spotted by the CCTV camera in the street below. 

A shot with the kind of weapon who would produce that sort of a bullet would have to be near impossible. It would have taken the skills of a particularly talented marksman to pull it off. 

No wonder Jim's interest was piqued.

Adair's gambling was directly connected to Moriarty's network. According to Sherlock's sources, he was a prodigy in online gambling, earning millions every week. That was all Sherlock knew as a fact. However, no sniper working for Moriarty would ever use a sub-level weapon. But a desperate, recently discharged ex-soldier with a penchant for gambling? 

The police could not have found the killer. But Jim knew where to look. And after that night Sebastian Moran had very little to worry about when it came to debt, at least of the monetary kind.

Sherlock raised the stakes. 

"How long have you known?" Sherlock asked, "Not that it really matters at this point, but I'd like to know."

"I'm not sure," Sebastian told him honestly, and Sherlock was not surprised. He'd been very subtle in his hints, letting Jim do most of the work without him really knowing. 

But Sherlock never needed to be explicit. That was the beauty of a doubt, planted inside someone's mind. You can't stop an idea once it's made its home. Jim taught him that, and Sherlock was always a quick study. 

"Maybe after your brother died?" Sebastian suggested.

Sherlock hummed, "He was always a bit useless."

"I still don't understand." Sebastian continued, and matched his claim, "You had me tailing Watson. You pretended to be your own enemy. _You jumped off a roof_. What was it all _for_?"

"Why does anyone do anything, Sebastian?" Sherlock said, echoing words uttered long ago, "Because I'm bored," He graced the sniper with the shadow of a smile, "And it's been fun, wasn't it? Still, the public persona was becoming too famous, thanks to John Watson; it was time to die out," He smirked, "So to speak." 

"Watson was never in any real danger."

"No. I'm not finished with him yet."

"What do I even call you?" 

"Sherlock Holmes." 

"Really."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sebastian," He said sternly, looking Sebastian straight in the eyes.

He trusted Sebastian to understand the silent order. The temporary moment of grace was over, and it was time to resume character. Sebastian was clever enough to make it work, but not clever enough that he couldn't be fooled. Was anyone, really?

Sebastian places his cards on the table. Sherlock smirked, and laid his own.

"Full House," He said simply, and won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - 1905, if anyone is interested, is the year "The Return of Sherlock Holmes" was published. At least according to Wikipedia.  
> A/N #2 - I had to google "poker for dummies". I'm so ashamed.


	4. The Redefinition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was worth the wait :) Please note that previous chapters have been slightly revised and edited for mistakes (by me).

The Redefinition

 

The case in Dubai ended as well they expected. That is to say, it ended with the death of their client and a hasty retreat from the country's borders. The assassination of the influential client took place far from the city and its countless security cameras. By the time the bodies were discovered the three of them were long gone. The local police had nothing to connect the tourists from room #1460 to the crime scene. 

The case the client hired them for was awfully tedious. The wealthy client requested their help in staging his own kidnapping. His family was instructed to quickly and quietly transfer the money to an untraceable foreign account or risk his untimely death. Quite unimaginative. 

No, the interesting part came after. 

Three years previously, Jim Moriarty became infamous in certain circles for the possession of a code that would allow him access to any system he desired. They ploy to make him come in person was just that, a ploy (with the added bonus of becoming slightly richer.) The client was itching to get his hands on the key that could open any safe, unlock any door. He was intelligent, yet obviously self confident enough to believe he could pull one up on Jim. The man was incredibly wealthy, after all. Rich men usually were self assured to the point of delusion. 

Both Jim and Sherlock reached the same conclusion from the first video correspondence with the client. Jim chose to go along with the case anyway.

Sherlock waited exactly one hour after Jim left for his final (and only, at least as far as the client was aware) meeting with the client before he set chase. 

It had taken Sherlock just under two hours to locate the kidnappers. He was enjoying the chase, despite himself. He was in a strange country with very few tools at his disposal; it was some sort of a record for him, he was sure. 

Sherlock should have allowed Jim to die there. He had everything he needed in the form of one Sebastian Moran. Enough to spin the story in his favour. Yet, the notion of allowing Jim to perish to his own recklessness crossed Sherlock's mind just briefly before he dismissed it without a second thought. 

Unseen, he studied the warehouse from a safe distance. Of course it would be a warehouse. What a cliché. 

The infiltration was easy. He did not need to direct Moran to the best firing position; the sniper easily identified the most accessible spot where he would be able to launch his attack from afar, unseen. He paused only to look at Sherlock in real concern, but nodded in assent at Sherlock's sharp look. 

Sherlock waited until Moran started firing before he walked over to enter the warehouse through the main gate. Not one of the guards patrolling the perimeter noticed him; they were too busy ducking for cover. Sebastian had a talent for distractions. Sherlock slithered through the maze of shelves, avoiding the men who rushed outside to assist in the gunfight. The place was obviously a storage space of some kind. It was quite easy to find ways to conceal himself as he made his way closer to where they were holding Jim. It was almost as if they were _trying_ to make this simple for him. 

A few shots were fired back at Sebastian. They must have found his hiding place. The sniper stopped firing. The kidnappers obviously thought it was a good sign. So did Sherlock. He came closer to the backroom occupied by Jim and his former client. 

"You should have brought more backup," The man said smugly, entirely too self confident.

"I have," Jim said happily. The man didn't have time to react before a fist hit the back of his head, and he crumbled to the floor, his gun wretched from his grip. 

"Hi honey!" Jim said sweetly. 

"Having fun?" Sherlock asked. He could hear the gunfire resuming outside. At least somebody was obviously enjoying himself.

"Loads," Jim drawled. He had been smacked around, Sherlock could see, yet his impression of a damsel in distress was terribly lacking. He was brimming with energy; grabbing Sherlock by the waist to twirl around with him as soon as he was released from his restrains. The smell of gunpowder stood in the air and Jim laughed in delight. 

"My hero," He crooned, holding Sherlock close. 

Sherlock couldn't quite grasp the point for their little adventure, as hard as he tried. Jim's actions at times were a complete mystery to him, no matter how long he'd known the man. It irritated Sherlock to no bounds. 

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Sherlock asked against Jim's brow. 

Jim stopped spinning, and held Sherlock loosely. He stared at Sherlock long and hard, the look on his face happy yet intense. 

"Oh yes," He said. 

Jim took the gun from Sherlock's hand and turned to look at his untrustworthy client, unconscious on the floor. Jim's other hand lingered at the small of Sherlock's back.

"Now, what shall we do with this?"

 

XXX

 

John Watson made his way up to Baker's Street. The weather was nice that day, and he left the Tube one station early on an impulse. He could really use the walk; he was spending more time sitting down than not, these days. 

He wasn't sure what brought him back to Baker's Street so soon. He'd been thinking about the break in Mrs. Hudson told him about in his last visit, only a few days before. He probably should have called ahead to tell Mrs. Hudson he was coming, he thought, when he rang the doorbell and no reply came. 

Instead of turning around, he fished in his pocket for his keys.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he called, knocking on her door. No answer. He tried her mobile and learned belatedly that she was out visiting her sister on the other side of London. He assured her that she didn't need to rush back, and that he will come visit her again very soon. 

He turned to leave, but stopped before reaching the front door. He thought that maybe he should take another look around the flat. He still had a key to 221B after all this time. He tried to return it, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head and turned him down firmly. She said she wasn't planning on renting out the flat to anyone else any time soon, and that he was welcome to come back anytime he pleased. That was when he learned that Mycroft decided to keep the place as it was. The older Holmes brother arranged for the rent to be paid, and the flat to be kept clean and tidy. The way it never was when Sherlock was alive. 

Mycroft Holmes. John couldn't hold back the twinge of anger he still felt at the thought of that name. During the years the cold fury he experienced at the mere thought of the other man had dulled considerably, but probably nothing would ever bring the resentment to rest completely. Not after fighting all this time to stop Sherlock's name from being dragged through the mud even after his death, knowing that the elder Holmes could have done something, anything, to prevent it, but elected to do nothing. 

John had only seen Mycroft once after the funeral. It was only a week after he moved out of Baker's street in a hurry. He returned to the flat, after much delaying, to collect what few possessions he had. He found Mycroft there, sitting in Sherlock's armchair, his hands steepled under his chin. He didn't notice John standing there, seemingly too far lost in his own mind. John had to cough loudly to alert Mycroft to his present. It was uncanny, the other man always seemed to notice everything and everyone around him, but he seemed startled when he saw John standing there. He regained his composure quickly, and stood up to greet John, collecting his umbrella on his way up. 

He remembered the short conversation he had with Sherlock's brother, right until the point Mycroft told him it was best to forget and move on. What happened next was mostly a blur to John, he couldn't remember if the angry tears had been what blurred his vision, or just blind rage, but the next moment Mycroft was clutching his bloody nose. It was the last he'd seen or heard of the man. 

He tried contacting him again. Swallowed his pride and called, but no one ever picked up his calls. He came by in person, both to Mycroft's precious club and to his office, only to be dragged out from the former and be told in the latter that no one by that name worked there. John gave up in disgust. The man obviously didn't care about his brother's reputation, opting to hide away in his shame for bringing this whole mess on him in the first place.

John never once doubted Sherlock's innocence. Not when the police cited "new evidence" but very little else besides that every time he asked about the ongoing investigations (and that was all Lestrade knew, too. He was kept in the dark about everything that had to do with Sherlock.) John never started doubting even when verdicts were appealed and even overturned; criminals Sherlock helped put away returning to the streets once more. 

John knew Sherlock. He never once believed the man was a fake.

As it turned out, John wasn't the only one. 

It started, as all of it did, with John's blog. John was surprised by the onslaught of comments, emails, even phone calls he received from people he never even heard of. All of them giving their condolences, and saying that they did not believe for one second that Sherlock was a fake. 

Sherlock helped countless people over the years. All of it done in his usual charming manner, no doubt, but help he did, and often without pay. 

The first real push however, came from an American doctor John heard Sherlock mention in passing a few times. The man, who apparently worked as specialist for the FBI on high profile murder investigations, contacted John by email one day.

The FBI agent attached a file holding just under 12 minutes of recorded video correspondence between himself and a bedraggled Sherlock. Sherlock listened briefly to what the man had to say, then proceeded to tear the case wide open, sprouting a stream of deductions lifted from the few details the man showed him, casually insulting the doctor all the while, never pausing for breathe. John was shaking when the video ended, not with grief but with laughter for the first time in weeks. He asked the doctor for permission to share the video online. 

The next day, John posted the video to his blog. The thing went viral in the blink of an eye. Sherlock's clever remarks on the video became catch phrases, and the video was reposted countless of times to YouTube, each new post sporting a brand new edit that John was sure Sherlock would not have appreciated. 

Apparently the FBI agent who sent him the video was reprimanded for the leak, but as he told John after, it was the least he could do. He too, believed in Sherlock. 

The video opened the door for many others, not all of them had videos as proof of the man's genius, but they shared their experiences online and offline. Graffiti in Sherlock's support began to pop up all over London, and the world, if the pictures sent to him were unedited. Protests were made in front of Scotland Yard by people sporting Guy Fawks masks and deerstalkers, carrying signs adorned with sarcastic messages. An indie documentary of The Movement (as people began to call it) was made by four aspiring film students. It was the first time John ever agreed to be interviewed. 

For the most part, John wasn't really involved in the actual movement. It seemed like the whole thing blew up on its own. John was never a social crusader, or believed in grand gestures. But those who fought to clear Sherlock's name seemed to have declared John as their leader. John couldn't think of a better way to prove his friend's authenticity than continuing to write up their adventures. It was his own proof, and he wanted to share it. 

All the while, the police investigation continued. It was kept extremely hush -hush, but what little John could perceive wasn't good. John was convinced Moriarty continued to try and pin more blame on Sherlock. The movement had quieted down considerably after two years, only to spark back to life by Moriarty's appearance on the BBC. Moriarty was long gone by the time John reached the studio. That was when John made another attempt to contact Mycroft, but to no avail 

John was convinced he was behind the break-in too. Three years down the line and the criminal mastermind was still by-and-large. John was sure of it. But what was he after? Why would he arrange for someone to break into their flat now?

Whoever he had breaking in was obviously a professional. The place looked tidy and clean as always, now that Sherlock wasn't around to mess it up. The only reason Mrs. Hudson knew someone had broken in was because she woke up in the middle of the night, and was convinced she could hear footsteps upstairs. She alerted the police, but no one was there when they arrived, and they dismissed her fears as paranoia, as nothing was taken, not even the priceless violin sitting untouched on its stand. 

John wished she'd told him before, but she said she didn't want to bother him, not when the police themselves said there was nothing to worry about. 

Still, John thought to himself, it wouldn't hurt to take a closer look, find out if anything at all was stolen. If anything was taken, it might give him some clue as to what the hell Moriarty wanted. 

John climbed the stairs to the flat, and palmed the door open. It was strange, being there alone after all that time. Three years ago John couldn't bear the thought of staying there on his own. It was too damn quiet, and it hurt too much. He still felt a pang of wistfulness, being there, but it was easier as time went by. 

He set to work, going over Sherlock's possessions carefully, trying not to disturb his dead friend's property too much. It felt odd going through his things, but he stiffened his upper lip and tried to think back, to see if he remembered if anything seemed especially out of place or missing. 

He gave up after less than an hour of searching. It was hopeless. How could he find something if he didn't know what he was looking for in the first place?

John returned a box to its place on the bookcase and stood back. He wondered…The door to Sherlock's bedroom was slightly ajar, he didn't remember it being open the last time he's been there, and he couldn't think of why anyone would want to go into Sherlock's bedroom. He stepped inside, carefully observing his surroundings. Perhaps he'd have better luck there. He looked around the room, and then paused when he glanced over the dresser. 

There used to be a framed photograph hanging on the wall. The place was strangely vacant now. John stepped closed, noted the nail sticking from the plaster. Yes, definitely should have been a photograph there. One he'd teased Sherlock about once, he recalled. 

The photo John remembered featured Sherlock and Mycroft together as children, sitting alongside their mother. She had a kind smile. The red tinged picture made even Sherlock look redheaded; he looked small and grumpy and rather adorable. It was the only family photo John remembered Sherlock of having. Why would anyone take it?

John considered Mycroft, but Mrs. Hudson would have told him at least if the older Holmes brother was dropping by for visits. She knew he tried getting in contact with the man more than once. And Mycroft wouldn't sneak in there in the middle of the night just to take one family picture. He didn't have to but even if he did, he wasn't one prone to sentiment. 

John had an idea, and set out to test his hypothesis. 

Sherlock was a notorious pack rat. He saved random items and documents over the years, refusing to throw away anything he deemed even mildly important, yet was too lazy to ever put it in proper order. It was the cause of many rows between the two of them, as Sherlock wouldn't let John move any of his things either. Yet, as far as John looked, he came to realise certain documents definitely seemed to be missing. Sherlock wasn't the sort to keep bank statements or bills, even he wasn't that bad. But other documents, like hospital records, documents relating to his family, papers from his school days, none of those things could be found. In fact, he could not find a single official document listing Sherlock's name. Random items were missing too, like the silly frayed pirate hat Sherlock had, though it was far too small for his head. He couldn't find Sherlock's passport in its usual place in the drawer. It was as if all records of Sherlock Holmes having been an actual human being, with a real history, were sponged. All that was left of him was the eccentric detective. 

What that could possibly signify, John had no idea.

 

XXX

 

Their next stop would be London. For all they've travelled, Sherlock hadn't set foot there once in three years. He was rather convinced that had been intentional. Perhaps Jim thought Sherlock would run off after all if he were to confront the city he considered home, his friends' fates be damned. He shouldn't have worried.

Speaking of his friends, Jim hadn't brought that threat up in months. Perhaps he thought he had Sherlock trained well enough he wouldn't need to anymore. Perhaps that was the reason for the whole Dubai mishap, to see how fast Sherlock would run if he called. Given their current destination Sherlock assumed Jim found the result of his experiment quite satisfactory. 

They were back at the cottage for the time being. Sherlock had recently showered, and was standing dressed only in his trousers at the foot of the bed. His hair was newly curling after the shower, dripping still. An open suitcase was laid on the bed; Sherlock was busy packing his clothes for the trip. If everything went as planned he won't be coming back to this place anymore. If everything went to plan, he was going to burn these clothes. 

He glanced up at the closet hanger, where his coat had been resting nigh untouched for what seemed like forever. He hardly wore it anymore, but now he felt the need to take it with him. He picked it off the hanger, ran his fingers over the dark wool. It was stripped off of him three years ago, when he was brought as a prisoner to this very house. Jim returned it to him several days later, intended as a 'pick me up' gift. He was very good at those. It was dry-cleaned and achingly _familiar,_ his scarf hung from its collar. Sherlock refused to touch it at the time. 

The sound of footsteps broke his concentration and he threw the heavy coat on the bed, set to resuming his task. He heard Jim's steps stop at the doorway. Sherlock wondered at his mood. They came and went so quickly, although Sherlock came to categorise each and every one of them. 

"What is going on between you and Sebastian?" Jim asked. 

Sherlock paused, and glanced over at Jim questioningly, "What?" He said. Jim couldn't _possibly_ know. 

The man drew closer to Sherlock, who could read the nuances of his emotions in his face. At least it answered that question. Sherlock hoped he wasn't about to complicate things. He needed Sebastian still.  
"You haven't fought in days," Jim murmured quietly enough that Sherlock had to strain his ears to catch his words. "Did something happen in Dubai?" a horribly insincere smile crossed his face briefly. "You can tell me. I won't be mad."

"We're having an affair, obviously," Sherlock said in a mocking tone before returning to his suitcase. He straightened slowly when the thing was flung off the bed. He sighed. Jim spun him around by his arm to face him. 

"Sherlock," Jim said warningly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, exasperated. 

Jim hadn't looked appeased, but something caught his eye. He leaned against Sherlock to reach for the bed, grasping the coat in his hands. 

" _Oh_ ," Jim said, drawing out the word. "What's this then?" 

_Stupid_. Sherlock mentally berated. _Of all the novice mistakes..._

He carefully schooled his face into an expression of confusion. "I'm not sure what you mean?"

Jim obviously did not buy it, "You haven't worn this old thing in ages. What's changed?"

"It's a coat. It assists in preserving one's body heat." 

"It's June - not exactly the cold season." Jim's face broke into a cheery grin. "Although if it's body heat you're after…" he tossed the coat aside and moved to press himself against Sherlock, running his hands liberally over his body. 

"Must you turn everything into innuendo?" Sherlock snapped out in annoyance. 

"Only when it comes to you, my dear."

"That's patently untrue."

"Jealous?" Jim breathed in his ear.

Sherlock shook off his embrace; face turned away, "Hardly."

Jim allowed him to back away for once. Sherlock could see him from the corner of his eyes, the slow, slow smile and tilted head, observing Sherlock closely. 

A hand reached to turn Sherlock's head back to face him. It proceeded to cup the back of his neck and stayed there.

"Sebastian won't be coming to London with us," Jim said.

That was very interesting. "Oh, changed your mind again?" Sherlock asked. 

"Would you like me to change it back?" Jim answered with a smile. 

"I couldn't care less." 

"Yes, you could," Jim said tightly, though he was still smiling. "Why is that, Sherlock?" 

"You're being paranoid." 

"Am I," Not a question. 

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock intoned. He wrapped his hand around Jim's wrist. "Let go."

"Why, aren't you feisty today," Jim stated, tongue twisting. He removed his hand, only to lash out suddenly, shoving Sherlock back onto the bed. 

Sherlock glared at him, sitting up. 

Jim smiled cheekily, and began to tug off his own clothes. Sherlock lay back down with a sigh and closed his eyes. It was just as well; he couldn't afford to seem too restless that day, there was too much at stake. Soon enough he felt the other man crawling on top of him until their faces were levelled. He felt his breath on his face. 

"Look at me," Jim said. 

Sherlock's eyes blinked open. They locked gazes. 

"Sherlock," Jim said softly, fingers ghosting on the side of his face. "I love you." He murmured and Sherlock's body stiffened despite himself. Jim smiled and leaned forward to touch his lips to Sherlock's face, leaving small caressing kisses. 

"No, you don't," Sherlock said softly.

Jim pulled back, screwing up his face in annoyance. "Hello, having a moment here?" He growled. He sighed deeply when Sherlock didn't reply, and shuffled off of him, kneeling on the bed by his legs. He unzipped Sherlock's trousers and set to undress him completely. He then reached the bedside table for the lube, seemingly forsaking all thoughts of foreplay. He moved to kneel between Sherlock legs. 

"I wasn't lying," Jim said as an afterthought. 

"You're deluding yourself," Sherlock continued as if Jim hadn't spoken, "This isn't love."

"Oh, sweetie," Jim said in mock concern, twisting his fingers inside of him, "Am I not paying you enough attention?" 

"If I said 'stop', right now, would you?" Sherlock asked quietly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"I don't think you really want me to." 

Sherlock laughed without humour, "That shouldn't – _that doesn't matter_!" 

"You're right. It doesn't matter," Jim wriggled his fingers free, and brought their faces together. 

He spoke quietly, staring intently at the man below him, "It matters to ordinary people, or at least they'll pretend it does. Their boring lives are dictated constantly by rights and wrongs and silly little moral convictions. Don't you see? We're _different,_ Sherlock," He kissed Sherlock's mouth, sweet and unhurried. "We're better. You and me, we're the same, can't you understand?" He sighed, as if Sherlock was disappointing him, "I work so hard to show you."

Jim leaned down; kissing a scar on Sherlock's chest that was the exact shape of his teeth, "The difference between us," He said and then paused, rising back up and lifting Sherlock's legs to his shoulders. He kissed one of Sherlock's calves and leaned forward, punctuating his next words with his actions, "Is that I'm not afraid to _take_ what I want."

"And I'll always want you, my love," He said between thrusts, panting slightly, "Always. You're mine, never forget that."

 

XXX

 

They arrived in London late that night, escorted by two of Jim's lackeys with more muscle than sense. They were handpicked by Sherlock himself, Jim trusting him with liberties these days more than ever. 

The night's outcome all depended on Moran now. Jim ordered him not to come, not long _after_ Sherlock spoke to him in private for the last time. He hoped Sebastian would draw the desired conclusion. 

Their last conversation happened shortly before their return to the country, Sherlock taking advantage of a brief moment of privacy to exchange a few last words with the sniper.

"I'm beginning to tire of having a mouthpiece, Sebastian," Sherlock told him quietly, adopting the same barely felt Irish accent he used in their earlier conversation. The man listened intently, hanging on to his every word. 

"Especially when that mouthpiece has been talking a little too much, if you catch my drift," Sherlock continued.

Sebastian's eyes widened, "You don't think…"

"Oh, I'm sure of it. The information could only be coming from one place." 

Sebastian watched him, contemplative, "It makes sense, what with all of those failed operations lately. Jesus." He muttered. "I knew I couldn't have missed that target. Who has he been talking to?" 

"Whoever pays the most, I'm sure." Sherlock smiled and said, "I'll be requiring your assistance again very soon. And Sebastian?"

"Yes?"

"Stay on your guard," He told him then. 

Sherlock watched the city unfold behind the dark tinted windows of their vehicle, perhaps hoping to catch a familiar face among the city's pedestrians. Jim had been watching him like a hawk ever since they've entered the city. 

They were en route to meet with some of Jim's associates. The agenda for tonight was the set up of a new drug smuggling route, their clients being a well known English crime family. The were the kind of people everyone knew to steer clear from, the sort of criminals you'd hear mentioned constantly in the news but never saw on any most wanted list. No charges ever seemed to stick against them. 

Their meeting place was a seedy little club in one of the worst possible parts of the city. Sherlock knew it well. There will only be a handful of people allowed into the place that night, Jim only dealt with a select few in person. Sherlock saw the waiting line for the club stretching on the pavement as their car curved behind the building, all set to enter through the backdoor and away from any CCTV camera, if those were ever left intact in that neighbourhood. 

A heavy set guard set to pet them down at the entrance, and Jim glowered at his presumption. Jim's own escorts walked up beside him, dwarfing him in comparison. The effect however was greatly diminished when they backed down immediately with the snap of Jim's fingers, cowering instantly. "Boys." Jim said in a warning, "Play nicely." He then broke out in a wide grin, eyeing the guard like a new chew toy. The man looked uncertain then, and a little bit unnerved. Jim had that effect on people. 

"What do you think?" He turned to Sherlock suddenly. 

"Divorced twice, no children. Lives with his mother, by choice, she has a bad heart. Recently quit drinking. Three separate prison sentences in the last ten years for assault and battery charges. Left shoe says still on parole. Has a cat," Pause, "Two cats."

Jim huffed in despair, and brushed past the gaping guard, "Boooring."

"You asked." 

They met the club owner on the dance floor. The place was deserted from any patrons, although one couldn't tell judging by the loud music playing as if the room was packed. The owner was wearing an expensive yet utterly tasteless white suit. It looked as if tonight they were entering the den of stereotypes. Jim pulled a face at Sherlock. Apparently they were thinking the same thing. 

"'Welcome!" The man yelled cheerfully over the music, shaking each of their hands with enthusiasm. He held a drink in his left hand, and gestured toward the bar, "Anything you want!" He shouted, "On the house!" 

Jim rubbed his ear pointedly, then pulled out a handgun, and aimed it at the D.J. station. Immediately the music shut off. 

" _Thanks_!" He said in a sing song voice, and tucked the weapon back in its holster under his jacket. 

"Ah! Our guests are here!" Three men came out of the back room, greeting them like old friends. Sherlock recognised the one who spoke from various encrypted video conferences over the years, although they've never met in person. The men were all obviously related; even if he hadn't known who they were he could tell from their similar receding hairlines and familiar body language that the three men were brothers. 

Like all of Jim's close associates, they recognised them both from the extensive media coverage they received during the "Trial of the Century", three years prior. They side eyed Sherlock in curiosity, but elected to say nothing. A common reaction. Very few ever made enquiries, and none of the ones who had lived very long. In fact, most of the people who met them in person, the unimportant ones, wound up dead mysteriously or simply vanished without a trace. 

Like that unfortunate guard posted by the backdoor, Jim was probably already making plans for him. That one hadn't recognised Sherlock, though Jim tried so hard to refresh his memory. Not that it made much of a difference. 

Sherlock glanced around the room superstitiously. Moran was already there, he noted, pleased. He wasn't completely sure the man would follow through.  
None of the others noticed his presence yet, nor the presence of the other snipers, at least two that Sherlock could see. Of course, Sherlock knew what to look for. A two story building, thick brick walls and numerous locations where one could observe the dark room from above without being seen, perfect hiding place for a sniper. Sherlock would have to congratulate Moran later, and take a look around the place himself. He simply must find out how the snipers got in unseen. 

"Shall we proceed?" Sherlock interrupted the group, their alpha-male dance shrouded in faux friendliness was grating on his nerves, and besides, it was time. 

"Yes of course," One of the brothers said, turning toward the backroom. "Follow me."

"Yes," Sherlock said and then flattened a hand against Jim's chest, pushing him back roughly, "Not you."

The man spluttered in surprise and grabbed at Sherlock's arm, removing it from his chest, "And why is that, my darling?" He growled, dark eyes narrowing in anger.

Sherlock smirked. "This has gone on long enough," He said, loud enough for their audience to hear, "Wouldn't you agree, Richard?"

Jim blinked. "What?" he said, his expression darkening as realisation struck, "Oh? Oh!" He said, laughing, "Do you really expect that to work?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and walked over to the bar, bending over it to reach for a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He poured the drink before leaning back against the bar. Amused, he saluted someone unseen.

Instantly, a multitude of red laser points appeared, covering everyone in the room besides Sherlock. One of the dots stopped at Jim's forehead, dancing on his pale skin. The gangsters cursed loudly.

"What the fuck is going on?" One of the brothers cried out in anger. Another reached for his own weapon, although who he was planning on shooting wasn't clear. 

Jim's eyes widened slightly. He looked down at himself, saw the dancing red dots.

"Seb?" Jim murmured. 

"Don't worry," Sherlock assured the gangsters offhandedly, "They're not really here for you," Immediately all the dots moved to point at Jim, covering him from head to toe, "Did you really think you could cross me, Richard?" Sherlock asked with a note of amusement in his voice. His voice held a slight Irish drawl to it, barely noticeable but present nevertheless. 

"What the hell is this?" One of the gangsters intoned loudly. 

"House cleaning!" Sherlock announced and threw back his drink, drowning it in a single move. He set it back on the bar with a loud 'thunk'. 

Jim gaped at Sherlock, his eyes wide. He was right; Sherlock did cherish the look of surprise on his face. Then a huge smile morphed his expression into glee. He made a move to walk toward Sherlock, but the other made no attempt to budge, he didn't have to. He had people to do it for him. 

Jim was grabbed before he managed to take a single step toward Sherlock; his arms were wrenched behind him by the two escorts they brought along. His face never lost its joyful expression, as he stared at Sherlock in wonder. 

" _Touché_ , my love," Jim said quietly. 

Sherlock's mild expression never faltered. He approached the other man and reached into his inner suit jacket's pocket, pulled out his mobile phone and handgun and tucked them both into his own pockets. 

"Get him out of my sight," He told the escorts, "Take him to this address," He said, jolting down something on a piece of paper and slipping it into Jim's pocket. "I'll deal with him later."

He paused, contemplative. "I do hope I'm making myself clear, Mr. Brook. You're fired." 

He turned back to the gangsters as Jim was pulled away. "Now gentleman!" he said, coat flapping around him as he spun to face the group of men staring at him suspiciously. He smiled briefly and pulled out Jim's phone, one of the gangsters twitched in alarm at the movement. He looked down at the mobile phone, unlocking it without hesitation. 

He spoke again, not bothering to look up at his audience. "Shall we discuss business?" 

"Who the hell _are_ you?" One of them asked. 

"James Moriarty," He said, drawling out the name. "Pleasure to formally make your acquaintance," He looked up and smiled crookedly, twirling the phone in the air once before pushing it into his coat pocket in a flourish.

 

XXX

 

It's done. Your move.  
SH  
[Msg. Received Wed. 23:35]

****

**Welcome back.  
MH  
[Msg. Sent Wed. 23:39]  
**


	5. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Large images. **Additional warning for this chapter:** Use of an ableist slur (the reason for it, besides trolls being trolls, will come into play later.)

Interlude: The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

 

 

 

 

 

Text version:

 

**From The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**  
 ** Sherlock Lives? **

Hi everyone, sorry for taking a few days to tackle this topic. I was away for a bit of camping for the weekend with no phone or Internet access (my girlfriend Mary's idea. She hated it, of course, not that she's ever going to admit that.), so I didn't really know anything until I switched my mobile on this morning and saw all the missed calls (quite a lot, by the way, I haven't felt so popular in years.) 

I know that many of you were waiting for my response. So without further ado, let me just say:

No, I don't believe it. 

I've had a chance to read the article in The Sun's (and you can be sure that it brought back some memories - one guess who penned it?) And I've watched the video as well. I'm not going to link it here and give them anymore traffic; I'm assuming you've all seen it already.

Guys, it's a hoax. I don't know who came up with it, but at best it's just a tactless plot by the media. At worst, it's Moriarty playing games with us. Again. If it is Moriarty, I wonder if it's related to the break-in at Baker's Street somehow. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.

Most likely it's just look-alike, or the video's been edited, I don't know. I admit, it's a very good resemblance, but the footage is just a few seconds of terrible quality, and you can't even hear anything. I know they said that the video is unedited and that the timestamp is impossible to fake, but I'd only trust The Sun's experts as far as I could throw them. So in conclusion: it's a fake. It's a very good fake, but it is one nevertheless. 

Whatever Ms. Reilly's playing at, it's not journalism. It's emotional exploitation of the worst kind. It's vulturistic. Frankly I find the whole thing shameful. I was there when Sherlock died, for God's sake! 

 

**2,093 comments**

I never believed it for a second! The tabloids are just having a slow newsday >:(  
 **Jacob Sowersby** 29 June 18:14

This is really messed up. Sorry you had to come home and see this.  
 **Bill Murray** 29 June 18:17

wow craziest thing ever.  
 **cutie_007** 29 June 18:18

Hi John, I'm here if you need someone to talk to. Someone who knew Sherlock I mean, I know you have Mary.  
 **Molly Hoopper** 29 June 18:20

Sorry, that came out a bit wrong. I just mean, I'm here if you need me.  
 **Molly Hoopper** 29 June 18:20

LOL, wank in 5..4..3..2..1..  
 **Tommy Boyl** 29 June 18:22

Can't believe people still care about that autistic fuck.  
 **umad_94** 29 June 18:22

LOL, told you so.  
Thanks for proving my point.  
 **Tommy Boyl** 29 June 18:24

Hello John, please call me back.  
 **E Thompson** 29 June 18:31

diaf umad_94!!!! show some respect jfc  
 **theimprobableone** 29 June 18:35

What the fuck, that's beyond vile. John, let me know if you need me to come over for a bit.  
 **Harry Watson** 29 June 18:43

John, where are you? Please pick up the phone.  
 **Mary Morstan** 29 June 18:47

XXX

**Bonus:**  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - I have to be honest, I find Jacob's blatant fanboy act on par with Jim's creepiness. That video, oh my God, stalker alert! I wouldn't be surprised if he's actually another Moriarty brother in disguise. Who is also called James. LMAO, this story already has three different ones already, what's one more James Moriarty. 
> 
> A/N #2: That second image from The Sun is supposed to be a cutout, but I messed it up a bit. I'm having a lot of fun with this story, you can probably tell ^_^


	6. The Crossfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - Additional warnings for this chapter - brief descriptions of torture.

Part 5: The Crossfire

 

The chair squeaked loudly in protest whenever he so much as fidgeted. One of its legs was shorter than the others, which ensured the maximum amount of noise for half the effort. 

He had been tied to the seat securely; the thick, padded straps held him down and in place by his arms, legs and shoulders, limiting his range of motion severely.

There was not much point in contemplating escape. Even if he somehow managed to free himself from his restraints, he knew he'd still need to bypass thirty-one different security protocols to get out the facility in one piece. That was, if they hadn't added anymore failsafes since the last time he checked, and that had been ages ago. 

And so, he hadn't bothered trying to come up with an escape plan. In any case, staying would surely prove to be far more entertaining. 

He had been left to sit in the small room for hours, all by himself. They were watching, he knew, but his back was turned to the viewing glass. The wall and door he was left facing were grey, blank and dull. It wasn't the same cell he graced with his presence last time; else they've managed to completely remove his fingernail scratches from the concrete walls. Shame, he liked his little art piece.

Jim pursed his lips, whistling to himself to the tune of _Mary Had a Little Lamb_. He rocked the chair back and forth, using the balls of his feet as leverage. His head slowly swayed left and right under his own rhythm. His eyes were closed.

He'd been stripped down to his pants this time around. He wondered if he ought to feel exposed. That had probably been their intention. Boring. 

After some time, the door opened. A rush of fresh air hit him in the face and he cracked a single eye open. He observed the two tall men as they stepped into the room one by one. 

Jim watched them with little interest. Their expressions were identical: mouth set sternly and brows furrowed. He wondered if they taught that at Secret Service Academy. He changed his whistling tune, matched it to their movements, supplying their dramatic entrance with a befitting soundtrack. 

Then, the two foreboding men were all but forgotten, standing unmoving next to Jim. He fell silent abruptly when a third man made his appearance. The chair stopped squeaking. 

A slow smile made its appearance on Jim's lips. 

"We have _got_ to stop meeting like this, my dear." He said and then lowered his voice to a stage whisper. " _People are going to talk_."

Mycroft Holmes stopped a mere few centimetres away from Jim, looking down at the bound man from his considerable height. His features shifted briefly. Whether or not it was intentional, Jim couldn't tell, but he cherished the rapid flow of emotions crossing Mycroft's face – disgust, contempt, _wrath_ – before the cool mask snapped back into place.

Mycroft backed off, settling into a confident stand near the wall. He grasped the umbrella handle with both hands, leaning slightly on where it stood in front of his body. 

Jim once asked Sherlock about his brother's favourite prop, but all Sherlock did was shrug in reply. Jim had his own theories, of course, and they had much to do with the phallic shape of Mycroft's constant companion. He smiled even more broadly at the tall man. 

He looked impeccable as always in his three piece suit, even more so compared to Jim's underdressed state. The three years however, had aged Mycroft noticeably. 

Even so, he appeared as cool and as collected as Jim had ever seen him. _The Ice Man_ , Jim thought in amusement. The Holmes brothers and their silly little masks, how very seriously they took themselves. 

"This is a pleasant surprise." Jim continued. His eyes were glued to the man before him. "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon. Did you miss me? Honestly?"

"I can't say that I have, but I was looking forward to meeting you again, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft replied. He pulled out a fob watch, glanced at it critically before returning it to his pocket. "I've cleared my schedule for the rest of the day; we have all the time in the world to-" He smiled, and it wasn't his gentle, polite one –"Catch up." 

Jim grimaced. "So very formal." He tutted. "Call me Jim, please. I'm practically your brother-in-law." He smiled brightly at his captor.

Mycroft eyes narrowed. He turned to his men. "You may begin." 

One of the men dropped his briefcase to the ground, and if he was disappointed that the prisoner did not twitch at the loud noise, he did not show it. 

The other man had been carrying a hose, as well as a clear plastic apron, which he then shrugged on in a practiced move. He attached the hose to the tape on the wall, screwing the plastic cover until it clicked into place. _That again_ , Jim thought in amusement. _Unoriginal_. 

The man holding the hose smiled briefly, and stepped away from the wall once again, uncoiling the hose as he walked. Jim followed his movements until he disappeared behind Jim's head. Jim dropped his head backward just to show off a toothy grin. 

The man patted Jim's head, like a dog. And then he smacked the back of his head, jerking Jim forward in his seat. The smile did not drop from Jim's face. He turned to look at Mycroft instead. 

"He's been a bit naughty, your brother." Jim called out with a wicked grin. "I'd say he earned himself a spanking." He swept his tongue over his upper teeth. "For starters," Jim added. 

Mycroft made a tiny little noise of amusement. He gestured, and Jim's chair was pulled backwards. He was suddenly hit in the face with a strong water spray. It continued for almost a minute until Mycroft raised his hand to signal for a stop. The spray stopped, and the man unhanded Jim's chair. 

Jim spluttered, coughing violently. The cough turned into a laugh mid-exhale. He shook the water from his hair, splattering the man behind him. 

"Woo!" He exclaimed, and laughed again. "Temper, temper!"

"I'm glad to see you're having such a good time," Mycroft said dryly.

"And yet, so predictable." Jim added. He sounded somewhat disappointed.

"Don't worry, they're only getting started." Mycroft looked down suggestively as the other man, the one not handling the water torture, opened the case next to his feet and began rummaging around in its contents. Tools clicked ominously against one another. The man pulled out a pair of shiny pliers. He stood, silently examining the tool in his hand. 

"So I see," Jim said with an amused chuckle. Water dripped from the tip of his nose. "Usually it's customary to ask questions."

" _Yes_ , and you are being awfully chatty this time around." Mycroft said with a kind smile that didn't match his eyes. "Unfortunately there's very little I actually need from you." He nodded toward his little helper. "You see, _Mr._ Moriarty. I'm like you in a way. I don't like to get my hands dirty, either." 

Jim looked sideway briefly, in a mock contemplative gesture. "No, your baby brother has _that_ covered." He closed his eyes, sighing. "And he's been _so_ dirty. You can't imagine." His eyes blinked open when a new idea struck him. "Or maybe you _can_. You've been watching us for a long time, haven't you?" He bit his lower lip suggestively, hissing a little as he did so. 

"How much ground did your surveillance cover?" Jim continued. "State sponsored pornography, I should sue." A slow, insidious smile spread across his lips. "Did you like it?"

Mycroft's face was like marble for all the emotion it showed. "My brother, Mr. Moriarty," he started, "is the sole reason you're here today, and soon, most of your _network_ will be apprehended as well." 

Mycroft spun the umbrella by its handle, looking down at it briefly before raising his gaze to meet Jim's steadily. "You see, while you were busy playing house, we have been working." He smiled then, "you've been sloppy."

"Sloppy?" Jim repeated, contemplating. "No, I don't think so." He said finally. 

"No? Perhaps simply foolish, did you really imagine you could turn Sherlock into someone like you?" Mycroft asked, leaning forward to peer at Jim's face in curiosity. 

Jim laughed briefly. "You're not getting it at all, my dear," Jim said in frank amusement. "I've already won."

"Sherlock is right, you are delusional." Mycroft said after a loaded pause, his eyebrow rose. "Don't worry; we'll put you out of your misery very soon… although, not _too_ soon."

Jim was pulled back, and once again the water hit him in the face, running down into his nose. The session lasted for over a full minute. 

Jim spat out a hearty quantity of water, hacking and wheezing loudly. Once he regained control over his breathing, he relaxed again in his seat. Cold water dripped down his naked back, and his skin goose bumped involuntarily. 

"Rude!" He called out, eyes widening. His voice was uneven yet still remarkably unfazed. "Right in the middle of a conversation. _You're_ supposed to be the one with manners." He tilted his head sideway, shaking out the moisture that seeped into his ear. 

He glanced at Mycroft as he straightened his neck, sighing. "I hoped Mummy Holmes taught at least one of you right. Oh, well." He shrugged. 

Mycroft did not reply, only gestured to the man behind Jim with a curt wave of his hand. Jim was pulled back once again, gurgling under the strong water current. 

"Forgive me," Mycroft uttered in a less than convincing apologetic tone, speaking over the sound of the water gushing out of the hose. "I didn't realise you said anything of significance." 

The chair's front legs hit the floor again. It wobbled unsteadily. Jim smiled cheerfully up at Mycroft, once he could, his chest expanding in painful intakes of breath. After a moment, he replied. 

"You haven't been listening," Jim said in the sweetest voice he could manage. 

"Oh?" Mycroft breathed out, his expression a perfect imitation of his little brother's. Jim wanted to coo. 

Instead, he said confidently, "I'm not worried." 

"What a relief," Mycroft said in a sotto tone, entirely unconvincing. "But, pray tell, why is that?"

"I've got a secret weapon," Moriarty whispered conspiringly. "I'm going to walk out of here, very soon." He wriggled his toes for emphasis. 

"Oh, I see, a secret key-code, perhaps?" Mycroft sighed, eyebrows rising. "We've been down this road before. You're boring me, Moriarty."

"Patience, dear. I'll show you, soon enough." Jim watched Mycroft from under his half-lidded eyes. His breathing was normal now, strong and steady. "You're not planning on letting me out of this alive, are you?"

Mycroft smiled turned predacious. "Naturally not," he said. 

The look on Jim's face was honestly pleased. "Perfect," he said.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to the dripping man in order to watch him closely. Jim stared up at him, a small smile playing on his lips. Finally, Mycroft sighed, exhaling through his nose as he stepped back once again. He pulled out a notepad from his pocket, marked something down before returning it to its place. 

"There is, however, one thing I'd like to know," Mycroft said finally. "It's not important, but I'm curious. I'd like to know what name I should put on your death certificate. We checked, you see, and James Moriarty didn't have any siblings, not on record." He gave an elegant version of a shrug. "What is your real name?"

"What do you want it to be?" The bound man intoned suggestively. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, sighing to himself. He waved his hand to the man standing behind Jim, signalling him to continue. 

"Like I said, it wasn't important."

XXX

Jim had the audacity to look betrayed.

Days after, it was still the first image that crossed Sherlock's mind whenever he thought back on their confrontation: the look on Jim's face when he was pulled away. Awed, yet hurt? Betrayed? It was hard to tell with him, sometimes.

It made him feel uncomfortable, thinking about it, and then he felt irritated at himself for getting sidetracked with emotions. Stupid and sentimental. He didn't have time for that.

He had arranged for Jim to be taken into custody. Secretly, of course, and hidden from the public eye; Sherlock had an image to maintain now and Jim's arrest would only complicate matters. He needed to trust Mycroft to keep Jim under control for the time being. 

He'll have to meet him face-to-face eventually, in court if nothing else, assuming everything goes to plan. 

It was easy to face Jim when Sherlock was playing a part, in character as James Moriarty. That had been fun, even. He was seeing the events unfold not through his own eyes, but through his character's eyes. It was a game, and he could treat it as such.

However, what would it be like when he'll have to face Jim again as Sherlock Holmes? The look he gave Sherlock as he was dragged away made Sherlock's breath hitch when he remembered it, just a little bit. 

He worried about his reaction, vaguely, but set it aside for the time being. He had more pressing matters to worry about. 

Sherlock sat by the window, plucking at his violin in distraction (not _his_ violin, not really.) He was alone, truly on his own for the first time in three years. With no one left around to gauge his every move. Unobtrusively of course, Jim never left him with any guards, so to speak. He'd always insisted that Sherlock wasn't a prisoner. 

_The illusion of freedom_ , Sherlock thought, his mouth twitching. 

He plucked another cacophonous note from the violin, and then set it aside impatiently. Bringing his hands to press together under his chin, he contemplated his next move. 

Sherlock's gambit had paid off. All he really needed was to have Sebastian on his side, and in the right position at the right time - when Sherlock publicly denounced Jim's identity. He knew Moran would cover him, just as long as he believed he was watching the back of the real Moriarty. 

Moran really deserved all the credit that Jim gave him. In the end Jim had done him a favour, when he asked the sniper not to come with them to London after all. Coupled with Sherlock's earlier insinuations about Jim's character, he managed to raise Sebastian's suspicions. The man was both intuitive and resourceful; Sherlock had to give him that. 

What a pity his loyalties were so misplaced. 

It had taken three years and Sherlock's considerable efforts to manipulate him into coming to the wrong assumption about Sherlock, right under Jim's nose, and without the sniper noticing anything was amiss. It wasn't Sebastian's fault he'd been tricked. Sherlock had outside help, thankfully, for Sebastian had been digging. 

Now with Jim out of the picture, and Sherlock in charge, it was time to act. He was in the perfect position to bring Jim's network down. He was probably the only person alive besides Jim who knew the full extent of the network, as it was. 

For the past three years, Sherlock had been a ghost. Only a handful of people knew as a fact that Sherlock was still alive, his brother and his agents included. Those who were privy to this information either reached an early grave, or, like Sebastian Moran, were some of the key members of Jim's organization, none of whom would have dared betray him. Becoming James Moriarty was the only way to turn their allegiance from Jim to Sherlock. 

In the end, he didn't really care what the greater public thought. He needed to convince the key figures within the network. Bless Jim, but he made it easy for Sherlock to know exactly what threads to pull. He supposed he ought to consider himself the spider, now.

Jim's inner circle, they people both Sherlock and Jim interacted with personally, were not numerous. With Sebastian Moran at his side, they'd need little convincing. 

The rest of the network needed something a little different. None of them met with Jim in person - they've interacted with the network as a whole. They knew _it_ existed, although they did not always know to which extent, and sometimes didn't even realise they were part of it. Yet their interactions were reserved to the organisation itself, with all its different branches and figureheads.

For years, very little was widely known about the man behind the name _Moriarty_. Then, after the entire media circus three years prior surrounding the triple break-ins and subsequent media frenzy around Richard Brook, none of them knew exactly what to think. 

Sherlock's living status was known to very few, but whenever he appeared alongside Jim, reports of his sightings followed. Rumours, of course, conspiracy theories, there were whole websites dedicated to it. 

Those sightings had a way to make waves. Some of Mycroft's undercover agents helped fuel the rumours in the criminal underworld, but they needn't had bothered, in Sherlock's opinion. 

The recent drama inside the nightclub was known to a very select group of people, all of them would swear on their children's lives that they hadn't talked. Yet, Sherlock knew, already a new wave of rumours began to spread about who really was pulling the strings. 

No secret was really ever safe, but without proof, all they had was speculation and hearsay. Oh, no one talked outright, Sherlock knew. They conversed in whispers only, assuring each other that whatever was said wouldn't leave the room. No one was stupid enough to gossip about Moriarty openly if they knew what's best for them. 

Sherlock heard Jim's underlings mutter among themselves when they thought no one was listening (Sherlock always had excellent hearing, and when that failed, he was very good at lip reading.) they talked, egged on by Jim's public appearances as Richard Brook alongside his continued activities as a consulting criminal. No one could be sure what to think. 

There were all sorts of conspiracy theories running wild. The websites especially were a laugh; Jim liked to read those out loud to him.

Some were determined that Jim was the real Moriarty, others thought that it was Sherlock who was the real criminal mastermind, others speculated that neither of them really existed, and others more suggested that both of them were actors, controlled by the real Moriarty who was some unknown shadow figure. The most vocal theorists decreed that it was the government who created Moriarty to distract the people from the real terrorists. A small minority also suggested that Moriarty was actually _John Watson the blogger_ (both Sherlock and Jim laughed out loud at that one.) 

Still, Sherlock's outing was only enough to create waves for the select few. He needed something to inspire the rest of the world, and more importantly, Jim's criminal connections, from his most important allies in the government to the most insignificant client. 

Luckily, he had an old "friend" to help him with _that_. 

Sherlock snapped out of his musings by the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. Steady, military, familiar. And making himself heard, Sherlock realised, since the man's footsteps were usually as silent as the grave. 

"Come in, Sebastian." Sherlock called out, before the man had a chance to knock. 

Sebastian stepped inside the door, kicking it closed impatiently behind him. He waved a newspaper before Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's own face was plastered on the tabloid's cover.

"Oh," Sherlock intoned, reaching for the paper. "What's this, then?"

"Trouble," Sebastian replied, running a hand through his blond hair. He flung himself into the armchair opposite Sherlock. "Check out page five." 

"Ms. Reilly works fast." Sherlock commented. His eyebrow climbed up as he skimmed over the article. "It's not much in terms of quality, but that's The Sun for you."

"Wait, you _knew_ about this?" Sebastian asked incredulously. 

"Who do you suppose gave her the scoop?" Sherlock said, looking at Sebastian over the newspaper. He flung it away for someone else to pick up later, and leaned back in his seat, hands steepled under his chin once more. 

"After all the trouble you took to disappear?" Sebastian asked angrily. "Jesus Christ, Boss, do you realise how much danger you're putting yourself into?"

"I didn't recall asking for your opinion, Sebastian." Sherlock snapped. He shook his head. "It's a tabloid. I don't expect any substantial investigation to follow."

"So, what was the point?" Sebastian asked. 

"I've been a ghost for far too long." Sherlock said simply. "It's just publicity; don't read too much into it."

"Publicity?" Sebastian echoed in disbelief. 

"Isn't it obvious, Sebastian?" Sherlock asked. "I'm advertising." He smirked at Moran's dubious look.

"What, being alive?" Moran asked. "What's next, an ad campaign? TV interviews? If you're trying to branch out, James, I think I should know."

Sherlock snorted, "And why would I do something so crass?"

Moran rubbed his hand over his stubble. "Just tell me if you're planning on spending time behind bars for this publicity stunt. Because it will have to really be _you_ in there this time, not Richard Brook." 

Sherlock only smiled behind his steepled hands. 

Sebastian stared at him. "You're not, are you?" He asked in disbelief. "The jury trick isn't going to stick this time. They know better now, James, no TVs in a Juror's hotel room in high publicity cases." Moran paused, sighing deeply. "Unless you expect me to break you out of prison?" 

Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone, gesturing. "No, no, don't worry; I have an app for that." He assured the sniper.

He smiled at the man's answering groan. "No, no jail time, no publicity stunts." He said finally, amusement coating his voice. "Just the tabloid article," he said, and then paused, contemplating. "And the Internet."

He stood up abruptly, reaching for the laptop. He tossed it carelessly into Sebastian's lap, who caught it moments before it tumbled to the floor. Sebastian balanced it on his knees, frowning at the screen.

"John Watson's blog?" He asked, reading the title page out loud. 

"No, look at the other tabs." Sherlock said impatiently, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Watson hasn't written anything about it yet, I believe he's away for the weekend. But plenty of others had."

"So, a bunch of conspiracy nuts are writing about Sherlock Holmes being alive. So what? They do the same for Tupac." Sebastian's shook his head at Sherlock's blank expression. "Or Elvis…Tell me you at least know who Elvis is?"

"Is he important?" Sherlock wondered. 

"Never mind," Sebastian said finally, "You're something else, Boss. Anyway, people are talking about you, so what?"

"As I said, it's publicity." Sherlock smiled, "Just as long as they keep guessing, I can work the situation in my favour. It will be good for business to keep our friends - and our enemies - on their toes." 

Sebastian still looked unconvinced, but apparently decided to keep his doubts to himself. 

He continued to browse the websites for several long moments, both of them falling into comfortable silence. Sebastian's eyebrows rose from time to time in disbelief over some of the more outrageous theories. Sherlock's lips quirked when he glanced at him occasionally from over his smartphone, where he'd busied himself by texting orders and instructions to what basically amounted to his personal army. 

Sherlock loved Jim's phone. 

"How is Brook by the way?" Sebastian asked suddenly, offhandedly. "Still alive?" 

Sherlock smirked, "Yes, for now."

"Shame about him, he was a decent actor." Sebastian smiled crookedly. "Bit overdone, though." He frowned when Sherlock only nodded absentmindedly. "I'm sorry." Sebastian added.

"Pardon?" 

"You've known him for years, right? And uh, I know you were close." Sebastian coughed, awkwardly. "I mean, I've been needling you about it for ages, it was clear what was going on. Maybe a little too obviously kinky, but, eh, guess there's nothing wrong with that…"

"Sebastian," Sherlock said, aghast. "Stop talking, right now."

XXX

Several days later, John Watson was fuming.

He squared his shoulders unconsciously, his walk brisk and body language radiated agitation. He tried to tone it down a bit, and thought he was doing fairly well until a lady walking on the pavement in his direction got one good look at him, visibly startled, and immediately crossed the road. 

Good one, Watson. 

He was being ridiculous. He didn't understand why he let himself get so worked up over a stupid tabloid article. Maybe if the writer had been anyone else but Kitty fucking Reilly he would have had an easier time dealing with it. Maybe he would have been able to finish the blog post with something akin to dignity. 

He hadn't intended to get so affected, he hadn't, really. After three years, he ought to be able to keep a level head. No wonder his girlfriend insisted he should keep seeing his therapist. All it took was a news story to send him back to square one.

He sighed. He'd been doing so well, too. The weekend away to the country was nice and romantic, even if camping was really not their area. It felt good to leave his worldly concerns behind him, in the city. The weather was nice, the mud wasn't completely atrocious, and they had an overall good time. 

His mood was sunny and relaxed when he woke up on Monday morning and headed back to London. Of course, that couldn't last. He remembered the sinking feeling in his gut when he picked up the days old newspaper someone had been gracious enough to save for him. 

He thought he was calm, at first, even prepared to make a joke out it, when he started on his blog post. Of course he got so riled up he couldn't finish what he initially sat down to write. He clicked the submit button hastily and without bothering to proof read his post. He was probably going to regret that later. 

He hadn't even picked up his phone after he slammed his poor laptop screen down and left his flat in a tiff. At least he had his wallet on him. He could pick up some flowers for Mary when he returned, to apologise for his disappearing act, but first, by God, he needed a drink. 

He stepped around the curve and made his way to the closest pub. It wasn't one he frequented, which was good; he wasn't in the mood to be approached that evening.

He stopped dead in front of the pub, staring blankly. 

The pub had one of those electronic screens hanging from their door, one that usually advertised their low prices or special offers. 

Right now the message on the board read: "Hello John. Look behind you."

He turned around slowly, and yes, just as he expected, a sleek black car with dark windows came to a stop next to him. John looked at it, and then looked back to the electronic board, which now advertised "Buy the Second Pint for Half the Price!" 

He closed his eyes tightly, feeling the pounding in his head increase tenfold.

"You have got to be kidding me." John breathed out to himself. The driver of the car, a large man in a dark suit stepped outside the car and opened the backseat door for him. 

"Is he serious?" He asked the driver, stepping closer to the car. He didn't bother to specify who _he_ was. The driver did not respond, so John bent down to peer into the passenger seat, one hand holding on to the car roof for support. A familiar dark haired woman sat in the backseat; she smiled at him vaguely in greeting, without taking her eyes from the phone in her hands. 

"Are you serious?" John asked her incredulously. 

She didn't reply. Apparently all of Mycroft's employees took a vow of silence sometime in the past three years. 

"Right," John breathed slowly to calm himself, straightening. He flexed his right hand, which began to tremble. He shook it angrily, now was not the time for that. 

He spotted a nearby CCTV camera, which was, unsurprisingly, aimed straight in his direction. 

John pointed angrily at it with his steady hand. "You better have a damn good explanation." He yelled. Mycroft probably couldn't hear him, but that hardly perturbed John. A few people whispered amongst themselves as they passed him, looking at him in a way they probably thought was inconspicuous. John leaned back against the car, covering his face in his hands.

Three bloody years and suddenly Mr. Holmes was finally deigning to meet with him. This day was turning out to be more precious by the minute. 

_Fine_ , he decided. He'll go, if only to give Mycroft a piece of his mind, and maybe his fist. It depended on how smarmy the smug bastard was going to be. 

He slammed the door behind him without waiting for the driver. Harder than he needed to, just for good measure.

XXX

The drive was a long one. John spent about half of it fuming in silence, and the other half ranting to his heart content at his escort, who hummed and nodded in response, occasionally offering half heartened comments.

He didn't know why he bothered, to be honest. 

They arrived to a deserted factory somewhere outside of London. He was led through countless corridors by Mycroft's assistant, who, despite never once looking up from her blackberry, never stumbled or hesitated. John wondered how often Mycroft kidnapped people for a friendly chat these days; now that his brother was gone he probably didn't have much of a reason to. 

Maybe he just missed it. 

She stopped at the entrance to a small, claustrophobic room with no windows. John nodded at her briefly and squared his shoulders before he stepped inside, eyeing the man sitting by the table. A water pitcher was placed on the table, a slice of lemon floated lazily inside the cool liquid. There were three cups on the table, John noticed distractedly. Was Anthea supposed to be joining them later? 

"John," Mycroft stood up to greet him, his laugh lines deepening despite his smile being little more than a small quirk of his lips. 

"Mycroft," John said curtly, not shaking the offered hand. 

He looked older, John realised with some trepidation. Mycroft always seemed like he came from another planet. Both of the Holmes brothers had, to some extent. But John had seen Sherlock ruffled, and less than perfectly composed, while Mycroft always was impeccably dressed and unapproachable. 

He was still impeccably dressed, but there was some grey thrown in his auburn hair now, his frown line looked deeper and he was somehow pudgier around the middle. Amazing how easily you spot changes in someone you haven't seen in years.

"How have you been, John?" Mycroft asked pleasantly, dropping his hand to his side.

"What does it matter?" John asked, unable to help the incredulous tone from seeping into his voice. "Why did you bring me here? Why, why…" His voice went off and he coughed. Anger clouded his mind. "Why _now_?" He asked in a quiet, stern tone. 

"I did try phoning you this time," Mycroft said, half to himself, turning around to pour a glass of water, which he neither drank nor offered John. He sat it down on the table. "You weren't picking up. A different approach was necessary."

" _I left my phone at home_." John said sharply, voice rising unintentionally. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Quieter, he said, "I'm not explaining myself to you. Answer my question."

"It will be clearer in a moment. Why don't you have a seat while we wait?" Mycroft said. 

"I don't want to sit. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on." A sudden thought crossed John's mind. "It's Moriarty, isn't it? Why you called me here?" John asked. "You caught the bastard?"

"Yes." Mycroft said simply, sitting down. 

"For good?" John continued. "You're not going to just _let him go_ again?" He asked harshly. 

"Yes, John." Mycroft assured him in a clipped tone. "He will not enjoy another day as a free man, I guarantee you."

John sighed raggedly. "What took you so long?" He asked.

"It wasn't just him we were after," Mycroft replied. "He's wasn't the only big fish in the sea. We needed a way to catch all of them before we made our next move. It was a necessity." He paused, obviously considering how much he needed or wanted to tell John. 

"All right, so what happened?" John asked, still refusing to sit. Mycroft looked up at him in a silent study. 

"An undercover agent, working in the heart of Moriarty's organization," Mycroft replied. John considered this for a moment, brow furrowed. 

"Go easy on him, John," Mycroft said softly then. "He's been through so much."

"What?" John barked out, confused. 

Mycroft rose from his seat, looking at someone behind John. "You're late," he said. 

John turned around, and blinding white shock coursed through his body like a lightening bolt. He could only stare, wide eyed.

"In more ways than one," Sherlock said, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. He smiled. "Hello John."

Suddenly John found himself sitting slumped on the floor, his back pressed to the table leg. Sherlock, alive, in his stupid great coat and blue scarf, was kneeling by his side, looking at him in concern. 

"Was that too dramatic?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. 

"A bit," John said hoarsely.

"Shall we try again?" Sherlock wondered. 

A laugh bubbled out of John, sounding a bit hysterical. 

"I watched you die," he said softly, reaching out to touch Sherlock's arm hesitantly, as if fearing it would go straight through. 

"I know," Sherlock said sombrely, looking down at John's hand. 

"You're not dead," John said, a little monotonously. He breathed deeply, as if to calm himself. " _I'm going to kill you_." He said finally, voice thick with emotion. 

He pulled Sherlock by his coat collar, bringing him closer for a hug. "I'm going to kill you." John repeated for emphasis. 

It took him several moments to notice Sherlock wasn't hugging him back. Rather, he'd gone rigid in his arms, body stiff and still as a board. Startled and more than a little concerned, John let him go. 

John smiled at him to dispense with the awkward moment, and Sherlock smiled in return, briefly, something akin to relief flitting over his features. 

Sherlock stood back up and offered him a hand. John clamped his hand over Sherlock's (Sherlock's, _Sherlock's_ , dear God) gloved one, allowing him to pull John to his feet. His leg shook again, spiking with pain, but he stood still until the feeling passed. 

"What are you doing wearing gloves in this heat wave, you clot?" John muttered without heat, wiping his eyes distractedly. He took the water glass Mycroft offered him with a muttered "Thanks." 

"You should sit down," Mycroft suggested. "You're as pale a sheet." 

"Finding out your best friend is alive after three years will do that to a person." John said, but sat down anyway. His heart felt like it was going to burst free of his chest.

"Sherlock," John said, not taking his eyes off his friend. "Tell me you had a damn good reason."

"Jim was going to kill you otherwise," Sherlock replied without hesitation. He took a seat himself. "He had assassins ready to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly." He turned to his brother with a half-smile. "Not you, though." To which Mycroft only shrugged. 

"I had to die, it was the only way." Sherlock continued. 

John stared at him in horror. "Okay, that's… that's a good reason." He said finally. He swallowed. "Mycroft knew?"

"Not initially." Mycroft said. His voice was strangely calm. "Sherlock contacted me after several weeks." 

"And, you couldn't tell me?" John asked. He didn't feel angry, simply exhausted. 

"I couldn't, it wasn't safe," Sherlock assured him. 

"Because I couldn't be trusted to keep the secret?" John asked, and suddenly he _was_ angry. 

"No, John," Sherlock replied. "I didn't tell you because I knew you would have come after me." 


	7. The Fraud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta: the lovely mugenmine!

Part Six: The Fraud

 

John could hardly believe what he just heard. Sherlock’s attention was fixed solely on him, and while he held Sherlock’s gaze steady on, John mentally flushed. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response. Except, maybe, _of course I would have come after you if you needed me, you dolt, that’s what friends are for._ He didn't say that out loud, though. He didn't think there was much point to it anymore. 

John didn't know how he was supposed to behave. It wasn't as if anyone could have prepared him for this. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel or say. It was odd, he never had trouble speaking his mind, not with Sherlock most of all. One must not speak ill of the dead, was what he'd been taught. _To_ the dead? It was as if his mind was still struggling to grasp that the man before him wasn’t a ghost. Sherlock wasn’t dead. 

Except that he was. For more than three whole years, he was dead. Jumped off a roof and was gone, just like that. John should know; he saw it all happen. 

People don’t just come back from the dead. Things like that don’t happen in the real world. Who does things like that? Sherlock Bloody Holmes, was who. And Irene Adler, he remembered. Fat lot of good that did in her case. Death still caught up with her in the end. 

John’s tongue felt like it was made of lead. Odd, that. John wasn't easily struck speechless. He wasn't that sort of a man. Then again, he wasn't the fainting type, either, and he still found himself on the floor just a short while ago. The day just kept throwing him with one surprise after another. 

The biggest surprise of them all was sitting right in front of him. Sherlock had an earnest expression on his face, which most people wouldn't have been able to spot on him. John wondered if he still could, really. Who was to say Sherlock wasn't just putting on pretences for his sake? After all this time, could John really claim to know him? His stomach clenched painfully at the thought. He wondered if ever really knew Sherlock at all. 

John felt as if he stepped into a parallel universe. Maybe he had slipped and hit his head, and was hallucinating it all. Or maybe he was dreaming. _Could he_ be dreaming? He pinched his thigh discreetly (except that Mycroft's gave a soft chuckle at that, so perhaps he wasn't as discreet as he thought.) 

Awake, then. Good. He couldn't imagine how he would have felt if he woke up suddenly and found himself still in his tent in the middle of bloody nowhere. It felt like eons passed since that unfortunate camping trip. No, he was definitely awake. His back and shoulder still ached from sleeping on the ground the previous night.

Christ, to think, all this time, people griped at him for not being able to move on properly. Said it wasn't good for him to dwell on the past. It wasn't if he didn't try. He was still seeing his therapist. He had a steady job and a wonderful woman by his side. He was functioning. 

It was simply his duty to help clear Sherlock's name. Sherlock deserved to be remembered as something better than a fraud. John knew the truth about what sort of man Sherlock was, after all. Ha, some cosmic joke that turned out to be.

Never - Not ever, not in a million years - could he have anticipated this. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock, who he watched plummet to his death. Sherlock, whose blank eyes and smashed-in skull still haunted his dreams. He had checked for a pulse, hadn't he? He could not have imagined the pieces of Sherlock left behind on the pavement. It all happened so fast – and he thought back to those moments so often – maybe his mind supplied him with details that weren't really there. 

He couldn't have imagined it all. He just couldn't. 

John was dizzy. He thought that perhaps he should put his head between his knees, so he did just that. Distantly, he heard Sherlock calling his name. 

John shook his head, once. He leaned forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his thighs. He let his head sag toward the floor. He tried to concentrate on taking long, calming breaths, and so he jumped when a gloved hand came to rest tentatively on his knee. 

He lifted his head to see that Sherlock was kneeling beside his seat, face a short distance from his own. 

"Will you leave us for a moment?" Sherlock murmured, shooting a quick glance toward his brother. 

"Of course," Mycroft said in reply. He rose from his seat and made to walk away, but then paused behind Sherlock. His hand hovered above Sherlock's shoulder for a moment before pulling back. "John," Mycroft said, giving him a quick nod before stepping out of the room. 

John couldn't hear his retreating footsteps. Either the room was soundproof, or the bastard was listening in. Either way, John hardly cared. He covered his face with his hand, letting his head sag downwards once more. 

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked. The hand on John's knee squeezed lightly. 

John looked up and tried to smile. It was less than convincing. "Give me a second," he said. 

He felt as if a fog was lifting from behind his eyes. He had so many thoughts, questions, all swarming together in one confused jumble. It literally made his head hurt. 

Belatedly, he realised that the shock at seeing Sherlock alive must be wearing off. His heart was still hammering a crazy tempo in his chest and a steady throb made its home in his temple, but at least he didn't feel like he was going to faint again.

"Sorry," he said. "It's just..." He lifted his hand to gesture aimlessly. "You know." 

"It's quite all right," Sherlock said. "In fact, you're doing better than I expected."

John huffed out a laugh, surprising even himself. "D'you think?" 

Sherlock smiled, eyes crinkling. He used John's knee as leverage to lift himself up to his feet, dusting off his trousers as he did so. He leaned back against the table, causing John's water glass to inch dangerously close to the edge. 

John licked his lips, finding them suddenly dry. He reached for the water glass and drained its contents. Holding the empty glass before his eyes, he sighed. 

"I don't suppose you have anything a bit stronger?" He muttered. He never did get that drink he was after. Ha, if he thought he needed one before…John didn't expect a "yes", so he was surprised when a steel hip flask was thrust before his face. His eyebrows rose in a silent question. 

"Confiscated it," Sherlock explained, and by _confiscated_ he of course meant _stolen_. "I… thought you might need it?" He added slowly, unsure. His brow furrowed. 

"Thanks," John said, nodding. He took the offering from Sherlock's gloved hand. The corners of Sherlock's lips pulled up in a split-second smile, no doubt assured that he had been right. 

John studied the engraved flask. The design depicted some sort of a big feline, he reckoned; a tiger or a leopard. It was old. The steel was so badly scarred by years of use that it was hard to tell for sure. The doctor in John was appalled by the thought of a stranger's germs, but the soldier in him still remembered a turbulent country and shared water canteens. Impossible to clean, those wretched things were. 

He removed the cap, and brought the flask to his lips. Tilting his head back, he took a huge gulp of the unknown liquid. He regretted it immediately. 

"Jesus." He coughed. "That'll rot your teeth out." He took another swing of it, and discovered the drink did not become miraculously better the second time. He grimaced, handing the flask back to Sherlock. 

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked, tucking the flask back in his coat pocket. 

John groaned in reply, still feeling the burn of the liquor. He pulled the back of his hand over his mouth before letting it drop back in his lap. He sighed deeply, gathering his thoughts. He looked up at Sherlock, struggling to get the words out. 

"You could have told me what you were up to. I'd have stayed away if you'd only asked," John said. 

Sherlock actually smiled – smiled! – at that. " _Wrong,_ " he said. 

For a moment all John could do was stare at his old time friend. And then, just like that, the words came tumbling out.

"Or, I could have helped you. It doesn't matter, you…" John felt heat rise up his neck. "You jumped," he stopped, sucking in air rapidly. "You let me believe that you were dead, all this time. _All this time_. I mourned you, Sherlock. I went up against everyone who called you a fake-" 

"Going against my express final wishes," Sherlock interrupted him, his head tilted to the side. He brushed a finger over his chin in thought. Then he seemed to realise what he just said was a bit _not good_. He looked down at John, having at least the good grace to appear apologetic. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock still had a knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. 

_Really, Sherlock? Really?_ John wanted to laugh, though he felt far from amused. He pulled himself up from his seat, intending to pace out his restlessness. 

"I didn't mean it like that." Sherlock said, in clear frustration. 

"You-" John started to say. He stopped himself before he said anything he might regret later. The room didn't allow for much pacing, and the dust unsettling under his feet made his nose itch. He stopped behind a chair, and gripped its backrest. He looked down, watched his knuckles go white from the strength of his grip. 

Perhaps he was going through some sort of bizarre reverse grieving process. This stage was definitely "anger". He closed his eyes tightly and tried to calm down. All of a sudden, he felt defeated. 

Maybe it wasn't anger, after all. Because all he could think of at that moment was those past few years, and how he spent them desperately missing his friend. Spent them thinking that he failed Sherlock somehow. Spent them thinking about what, oh what, he could have done differently. He categorised and calculated every moment, over and over, in his mind. Stayed awake countless nights, agonising over the 'What If's: what if he could have stopped Sherlock somehow? What if he could have convinced him that he didn't need to end his own life?

It was that horrible, crushing guilt that kept him in his therapist's seat all this time. She never did approve of the movement to clear Sherlock's name. Said it stopped him from coming to terms with Sherlock's death. Oh, the mind numbing irony; it was maddening. 

"John-" Sherlock started again, hesitantly. 

"Three years, Sherlock." John breathed out. "Three bloody years." He brought a hand to his face; attempted to scrub away the pain pulsing behind his skull. If he were slightly more poetical he might've been inclined to rub it over his heart instead. Silly thought. 

Silence prevailed for a long moment. "I'm aware how long it's been," Sherlock said eventually, coldly. His expression softened. "John…"

"Save it." John said, cutting him off. 

"Will you listen to me? I wanted to tell you, I would have done if I could," Sherlock said. "It was too dangerous."

John took a deep breath. "I can take of myself, you do know that?" He was surprised at how even his voice was. It was a complete contrary to his inner turmoil. But then again, he always knew how to keep calm in stressful situations. 

Almost always. Sherlock's bloodied face flashed in his mind's eye. 

"I know you can." Sherlock replied, all too quickly. "John-" 

"I'm not sure what to think." John admitted, interrupting him. He rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and index finger, pressing hard enough to see bursts of light behind his closed eyelids.

Sherlock spoke quickly, "I had no choice but to keep you out of it. You, Lestrade, everyone – you were being watched, closely. Mycroft was the only one with the means to disappear without arousing suspicion. If Jim had only suspected-"

" _Jim_?" John said, incredulously. 

"It was for your own safety." Sherlock waited a bit, looking away before reluctantly adding, "…And mine."

John felt an unpleasant shiver go down his spine. 

"Okay," John said finally. He shut his eyes tightly, and felt irrationally grateful that Sherlock was still there when he opened them again. He nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. "Okay." John repeated. "I'm not saying we're not going to have _words_ again later, but right now… You're alive, and that's all that matters." His voice went a little off at the end, and he cleared his throat, feeling self conscious.

"I hate to interrupt this touching reunion, brother dear, but we are on a schedule," Mycroft said, causing John to jump in surprise. He didn't even realised the man had re-entered the room. 

"Git," John blurted, unable to help himself. He had a lot of pent up resentment left for Mycroft. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes in reply. "Is that really necessary?" He asked. To Sherlock he said, "Do you have it?" 

Sherlock snorted. "You waited this long, Mycroft. Surely you can wait a few more minutes?" He reached into his pocket, pulling out a portable hard drive. One corner of his lip pulled up as he handed it to his brother. 

Mycroft turned it around in his hand critically, as if he could magically glean out whatever information it held. "Is this everything?" Mycroft asked.

"Hardly everything, but more than enough to begin with; as you'll find soon." Sherlock replied. "You can begin the distribution, but be discreet. I cannot afford to have you destroy my cover."

Mycroft smiled, "Of course. Shall I remind you, we've been in this business far longer than you?" 

John watched the exchange with mounting confusing. "Excuse me, would anyone mind filling me in?"

They both ignored him. "Yes, and doing a brilliant job for sure." Sherlock's dry tone made it clear he thought nothing of the sort. "Yet one must wonder why I had to rescue one of your people in Mexico, or dispose of that double agent eight months ago. Tell me, is he enjoying life in a Somali prison?" Sherlock asked mockingly. His eyes narrowed and he spoke again before Mycroft could reply. 

"You broke your nose." Sherlock observed. 

Mycroft huffed indignantly. He tapped the bridge of his nose lightly. "Doctor Watson's helping hand." He turned to John, raising a single eyebrow. "You've a mean left hook."

"Oh, that," John said. He cleared his throat. "Don't expect an apology any time soon." 

The last time John had seen Mycroft was a few weeks after Sherlock's "death." Not long after the funeral, in fact. John came by the flat to collect his things and found Mycroft there. 

Mycroft had the nerve to suggest John forget and move on. It was a bad choice of words, and Mycroft was clutching a broken nose a few seconds later. John hadn't seen the man since, as hard as he tried to contact him. Looking at Mycroft's nose now, he saw that someone had set it back perfectly. Even a trained physician such as himself couldn't tell that Mycroft's nose was ever broken. Sherlock, he knew, had his ways. 

"Really, why?" Sherlock asked curiously. He stepped closer to his brother, studying him with interest. "Oh. It was three years ago. What did you say, Mycroft?"

Mycroft grimaced. "Those were troubled times. I merely suggested that-"

"Hang on, you never noticed until now?" John injected, stopping Mycroft mid-sentence. "Didn't you say you two were in contact this whole time?" 

"Indirectly," Mycroft said softly. He looked at his brother carefully, and something seemed to soften in his eyes. 

"This is the first we've met in person since I died," Sherlock said. 

"Well, there's something you don't hear every day," John muttered. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sorry, since I faked my death." To Mycroft, he added sarcastically, "it was like an extended holiday." 

Mycroft's lips curved in a smile. "It's very good to see you as well, Sherlock." 

"Yes, well." Sherlock said before falling silent, avoiding his brother's eyes. 

"Sherlock, what were you doing all this time?" John asked. "Where were you?" His eyes widened when he remembered what Mycroft told him earlier. "You're the secret agent Mycroft was telling me about, aren't you?" He exclaimed. 

"Secret agent?" Sherlock said, glancing at his brother in question. He turned back to John, rolling his eyes. "You've been watching too much telly. But I suppose that's one way of putting it, yes."

"So Moriarty's been caught. You have proof that he's real, yeah?" John asked anxiously. He realised he was gripping the chair's backrest again, and quite hard at that. He let go, rubbing his hands together to restore circulation. 

Mycroft shook his head. "It's more than that. Moriarty's connections span across the entire globe, but he had a group of close associates on his back and call. Sherlock was able to infiltrate that inner circle." He paused, "well enough to overthrow Moriarty, in fact."

John gave that information a moment to sink in. "But… how?" He asked. 

Sherlock sighed. "It's a long story." His lips thinned, before he started to explain. "The condensed version is that Jim and I had an arrangement. He gave me an option to join him, in return for the others' safety, as well as your own."

"Join him, what do you mean?" John's list of question was growing steadily. "Why would he do something like that? What was in it for him?" 

Sherlock chuckled. "I've been asking myself _why_ he did what he did for years. Nevertheless, it gave me an intimate perspective on his criminal connections. Without them, he's as close to vulnerable as he ever was." 

He inclined his head toward the portable hard drive in Mycroft's hand. "That drive, in the right hands, holds enough data to ensure thousands of convictions, worldwide. And not just that." He smiled. "Jim liked to keep a close watch over our – _his_ – clients. With good reason."

He turned to Mycroft, eyes narrowed. "Do see to it that it arrives in the right hands, Mycroft. It would be unfortunate if this information was auctioned to the highest bidder. Don't muddy this with politics."

"I'll see to it that it's not." Mycroft said.

A mobile rang, cutting their conversation short. John frowned at the choice in ring tone, glancing between the two brothers in question. Sherlock's, he guessed, judging by the annoyed look that crossed over his face. His guess proved correct when Sherlock pulled the mobile from his pocket, hitting the receive key with more strength that was probably warranted. Gloria's Gaynor's assertions that _she will survive_ were cut in the middle. 

"I've been meaning to change that. Excuse me." Sherlock muttered. 

" _Yes_?" Sherlock said, drawing out the word. "Yes, speaking. Don't you read the papers, Mr. Murdock?" John could hear the man on the other side, although he couldn't make out his exact words. He sounded hysterical. Sherlock sighed hugely, loudly enough to be heard over the phone. He cradled the mobile between his ear and shoulder, taking the time to adjust his gloves while he listened to the man's babble. 

"While I certainly can take care of your little problem, it's hardly worth my effort now, is it?" Sherlock said in distaste, taking the mobile back in hand. He sat down, shooting an annoyed look toward Mycroft who sat on the opposite side of the table, watching his brother with fast attention. 

"I'm not expecting you to do anything," Sherlock said, amusement coating his voice. "If you'd have followed my advice to the latter, we wouldn't have been having this conversation right now. See what your avarice wrought? No, no, it's time to man up." He crossed his legs, leaning back in his seat. "Well, you have a gun, don't you?" He murmured. "A rope would do in a pinch."

It was Sherlock, but at the same time, it wasn't. John had seen Sherlock act many times, but the act was always starkly different to his normal behaviour. The personas he adopted were usually ludicrous, yet somehow still believable (sobbing vicar, falling-down drunk, babbling American tourist.) This transition, however, was almost as frightening as it was surreal.

The body language was Sherlock's. The words were mostly Sherlock's (despite the accent that now coated them). But somehow, the man speaking was decidedly, empathetically, not Sherlock. 

"What?" John mouthed in Mycroft's direction. The man's attention was fixed on his brother, however, and he did not reply. 

"Tick tock, Mr. Murdock." Not-Sherlock continued. "No time like the present. Try not to make too much of a mess, would you? Don't call this number again." Sherlock disconnected the call with a sweep of his thumb, cutting in the middle of the man's startled shout. 

"Did you just tell someone to off himself?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, he will never take his own life; classic narcissistic personality disorder. No, he'll make a run for it." He tapped away on his mobile, sending out a quick text message to who knows who. "Unsuccessfully," Sherlock added with a smirk and then returned the phone to his pocket. 

Turning to Mycroft, Sherlock nodded toward the portable hard drive that was now laid on the table. "You'll find Jacob Murdock listed under folder 'human trafficking17'. Use the index key, it's very helpful."

"What about the rest?" Mycroft asked, his index finger sliding over the device's sleek plastic cover. "You said there's more."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "I need more time to secure the information and compile it in a digital format. It will be ready before Saturday night. Have the preparations in the hotel been made?"

"Yes. And the staff has been replaced." Mycroft confirmed. "I'm assuming all invitees have confirmed their attendance?"

"Naturally," Sherlock replied.

"What's happening on Saturday night?" John wondered.

"A small gathering," Sherlock said, smiling. "You are never to complain about me making things difficult ever again, Mycroft. I'm handing this to you on a silver platter."

" _What sort of gathering?_ " John exclaimed. 

"I'll explain later," Sherlock said. 

Mycroft leaned forward with his hands clasped before his face. His elbows rested on the table. "You do realise, an operation on this scale… It's never been done before."

"Getting cold feet, are we?"

"I'm merely highlighting the fact that there would be repercussions. Very powerful people will be looking for someone to blame. I might not be able to protect you if any of this leads back to you, Sherlock." 

"I've taken precautions to ensure that _does not happen_. These people dug their own graves, Mycroft, none of it leads back to me, or to Jim. Let us keep it that way. After this is all over I want nothing at all to do with it, do you understand?"

Mycroft's looked less than convinced, but he nodded. "And as for Moriarty?" He asked. 

"I'm sure you can find _something_ to pin on him, but don't connect him to any of the main events just yet." Sherlock said, leaning back in his seat. He seemed conflicted, though, and after a moment he asked, "How is he?"

Mycroft's laugh was an answer on its own. He tapped the tip of his umbrella on the floor. "He's enjoying my hospitality." 

For whatever reason, Sherlock's expression darkened considerably at that. He leaned back in his seat, nostrils flaring in a sudden feat of anger, though he said nothing of the sort. He seemed to be debating with himself. John watched him in confusion. 

"I'll need to see him, of course," Sherlock said after some consideration. 

"Why?" Mycroft asked. It sounded more of a threat than a question. 

"Closure," Sherlock replied. His tone was dangerously flat. 

"Out of the question," Mycroft stated. 

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned. "Don't try to bully me. I can bring this whole operation down on your head in an instant." 

"Would you, really?" Mycroft said, lifting his eyes briefly to the ceiling. "I can't imagine it."

"Do you want to test that theory?" Sherlock snarled. 

"Boys," John said, exasperated and more confused than he had ever been in his life. "Settle down, all right?"

"You wanted to be kept out, Sherlock. I'm honouring that request." Mycroft said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was a stark contrast to Sherlock's livid expression. "My answer is final."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at that. He rose from his seat slowly, glaring down at his brother. Without looking at John he said, "come along, John." 

"Where are we going?" John was on his feet instinctively. 

"Out," Sherlock said. He turned up his coat collar with a snap (John had the sudden mental image of an angry cat with all its fur sticking up) and was out the door with two strides of his long legs. John followed close behind him. 

"John," Mycroft said, bringing John to a halt. He spoke so softly John wasn't sure at first that it wasn't just a figment of his imagination. He looked back, stopping at the door with one hand holding it ajar. 

"Would you ask him-" Mycroft started to say. He seemed to think better of it, though, and shook his head. "Never mind."

"What?" John said, sighing. 

For a few short moments, Mycroft seemed lost for words. It wasn't a very good look on him. 

"How is he, do you think?" Mycroft asked finally. 

John frowned at the question. _You're Mycroft Holmes._ He wanted to say. _You can tell what I had for lunch yesterday by the state of my shoelaces. Surely you don't need me to tell you that?_

"Why don't you ask him?" He said instead. 

Mycroft's answer was a long, drawn out sigh. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. "You know what he's like. Do you think he'll ever tell me?" He smiled, though it resembled more of a grimace. "Honesty?"

"Fair enough," John admitted. He licked his lips. There were a million things he still needed to know, and he preferred to hear it all from Sherlock. He made a hesitant step out the door. "I have to…" he said apologetically. 

"Go." Mycroft said, jerking his head toward the door. 

John offered him a tight smile before hurrying to catch up with Sherlock - in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you really expect the "C" to be that easy? I thought you knew me, guys! :) 
> 
> I'm sorry for not updating as quickly as before. I've had some RL issues that held me back for a while. Still, hope it was worth the wait! :)
> 
> A big, hearty THANK YOU to everyone who is is still following the story. There's a bit of a ride ahead of us yet. I'm endlessly thrilled and grateful for all your feedback and support! 
> 
> More coming soon :)


	8. The Fraud II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by the fantastic Mugenmine!  
> This chapter borrows (well, bastardises) elements from ACD's "The Valley of Fear".

Part Seven: The Fraud II

 

 

There had still been traces of daylight when Sherlock made his entrance. Now, like his mood, it had darkened considerably. The only lit place in the run-down factory was the windowless room he just left, and that light dwindled to nothing fast. He was left with the moonlight as his only source of light; a faint, laughable substitute that barely made it past the overhead windows. 

Aggravation made Sherlock stomp forward, consciously lengthening his steps. The huge abandoned building was in shambles, piles of rubble scattered all over the place and some parts of the flooring loosening dangerously. Deep in thought, he didn't bother to strain his eyes in order to avoid the obstacles in his way. Instead, he operated by memory, relying on his body and his mind's subconscious ability to lead him safely though the ruins. 

He was halfway out of the building when he opened his mouth to speak. The syllables caught in his throat when he realised John wasn't actually there. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, choking down a flash of panic. It was fear induced adrenaline, not physical exertion, which made his heart begin to pound in his chest and which caused his breath to quicken. And it all happened because, for several moments, Sherlock had lost touch with his surroundings.

He clenched his fists, refusing to let his hands shake. He chastised himself, for becoming so rattled, for allowing himself to lose control. Weakness was not a luxury he could afford. 

Easy, he thought. He put the wall to his back, and allowed himself to shut his eyes. They were useless in the darkness, anyway. You're alone. Not compromised, he reminded himself. He let his remaining senses adjust to the here and now, taking in reality to the fullest, until his heart stopped hammering and his anxiety subsided. 

Since his early childhood, Sherlock had a habit of retreating into his own mind. Oblivious and numb to the outside world, sometimes working on autopilot alone. It was a bad habit to have around certain individuals who violently disliked being tuned out. 

So Sherlock trained himself out of it. He learned to stay alert at all times. Even as he delved into his subconscious, his mind palace, even as he slept; a small part of him was still alert and in control. Or at least, it should have been. Somehow, without noticing, Sherlock had regressed into that old habit once again.

Damn it all, and damn Mycroft, too. Sherlock should have arranged Jim's incarceration all by himself. He should never have trusted Mycroft with him, should have known his brother would want to meddle. 

Now, John. When did he misplace John? Sherlock exhaled slowly, turning back on his heels in search of his friend.

"Sherlock?" He heard John's half-whisper (why was he whispering?) before he saw him. They almost collided. John cursed when he tried to stop his body's momentum and nearly stumbled. Sherlock caught on to his arm to steady him. 

"Thanks," John said, a little out of breath. 

"You took your time," Sherlock commented, squinting past John into the darkness. "Mycroft didn't follow you, did he?"

"Not unless he scaled the ceiling." John snorted. "Ah, you know a way out of this place, right?" He asked. Deadpan, he added, "It's pretty creepy; wouldn't want to find any ghosts tonight."

Sherlock didn't take the bait, instead he said, "Well, try to keep up," and turned on his heels, letting the cover of darkness obscure his smile. John followed right behind him, and stayed close. 

"Right, so, where are we going?" John asked. 

"I'm taking you home," Sherlock said. 

"Taking me… Wait, hold on a minute." John stopped Sherlock by grabbing on to his arm. 

"What?" Sherlock snapped, pulling back from John's grip. 

The John-shaped shadow sighed, holding both palms up in apology. "You're not planning on disappearing again, are you?" John asked quietly. "Because if you are, I'm warning you, I'm not letting you run off to get yourself killed. What was that all about, that phone call? What exactly are you playing at, Sherlock?"

"I've managed to get by so far," Sherlock said in a tone that was perhaps a bit too churlish, and not particularly caring. "Somehow." 

"Sherlock…" John sighed in that disconcertingly familiar way of his. If he were anyone else, Sherlock would have immediately bristled at his tone. Since it was John, Sherlock softened instead. 

"Look, I'm here aren't I?" Sherlock said. He shook his head. "I'm not going to disappear, and I will explain everything… but I'd rather it not be here. Come on." He turned toward the exit and then as an afterthought he amended, "Please."

John followed without another word. The silence not unwelcome for the time being. Sherlock led them to the other side of the building until finally they reached its south-east entrance. The grounds were large enough to keep both ends of the factory relatively private. Sherlock agreed with Mycroft on the logistics earlier that day. The two of them couldn't be seen in each other's company out in the open. Besides, neither of them arrived alone, and it wouldn't do for their drivers to become chatty (on the off chance that it might even happen.)

Then there was the matter of Sherlock's transportation. The vehicle's distinct shape came into view beyond the factory's run down gates. Its headlights turned on, illuminating their passage. Its beams low as to not blind them - the driver had some healthy fear of him, after all. He heard, rather than saw, John stop with a surprised, "huh."

Sherlock turned back around, looking at his companion in puzzlement.

"It's a hearse," John said in response to Sherlock's unvoiced question. "You drove here in a funeral car?"

"I was in the middle of a different project before I came to meet you," Sherlock said with a shrug. "I don't normally travel like this." Out in the open, John's features were more visible, made sharp by the vehicle's headlights. It registered to Sherlock that John was barely keeping his amusement contained. 

"Is there a problem?" Sherlock asked. 

"Oh my God, Sherlock," John said, his voice low. "You came back from the dead in a hearse." 

"I didn't actually come back from the dead." Sherlock replied, but he couldn't swallow his smile, or help but begin to chuckle at John's amused snort. One good look at each other's face was all it took for them to escalate it into full blown laughter, John going so far as to clutch his knees for support. 

"I hope you have seats back there," John said in a voiced choked with hilarity. He used the back of his hand to wipe tears from his eyes. Sherlock himself had to swallow a lump in his throat, and suddenly it dawned on him that there was probably a bit more to their laughter besides Sherlock's unfortunate choice in transport. 

Irritably, he shook his head, turning to the vehicle once more. 

The driver chose that moment to roll down his window, looking at the two of them in bemusement. "Uh, Boss?" The man called out tentatively. He was a ratty looking individual, long faced and twitchy. "Any change in directions?" The driver asked.

"None at all," Sherlock replied, and stepped back to the vehicle's rear entrance. Their next stop, as it was all along, was John's flat back in London. 

The hearse had no backseat to speak of. Four darkened windows added a sombre feature to the long compartment in the back. The words Birlstone Funeral Services were painted on each side of the vehicle; white lettering stark against the dark metal. Underneath the name was a phone number. If one were to ring that number, they would reach a real funeral home with the same name. One whose bookkeeping recorded jobs it never handled, and which registered a phantom vehicle to its business. _For our special long distance or international transportation services, press 5_. 

Sherlock held one of the back doors open for John. "After you," he said, musing that he probably should have warned John about their company beforehand. He did not wish to do so in earshot of the driver. 

John's recent good mood shrivelled and died as soon as he glanced at the contents of the vehicle. No longer smiling, his shoulders squared with tension, he looked up at Sherlock in alarm. A silent question. Sherlock merely jerked his head toward the entrance. "Later," he said, and John understood, climbing inside the vehicle with visible unease. 

Sherlock stepped inside as well, shutting the door behind him. Almost immediately they were on the move. It was a clumsy vehicle, not suited for the rough terrain, and they were able to feel every bump it made on the uneven road. 

Without a backseat, the hearse’s long interior was lined with padded benches on each side. Their cream colour complimented the rich mahogany wood of the coffin that rested between them, laid fastened to the vehicle's floor. 

The exterior of the coffin exterior was basic, belying its interior which was by far more complex. The engineer who designed it was no longer among the living, but his clever creation prevailed. Its design - made not of metal but only fibreglass, wood and silk covered cushions - proved to be extremely useful in masking any insidious components that might be hidden inside. It was virtually undetectable by machines. That was all they needed for transport, their paperwork was legit and no one– not even the police or customs officials - was all too eager to peak inside a closed coffin themselves (unless of course they were alone, and unable to hide their morbid curiosity. They never were alone.) 

The construction had been used many times in the past. No one had been able to replicate it exactly since the engineer died, and so it was high in demand. Of course it also served as a regular coffin from time to time, transport for the human body, albeit with some modifications. At the moment the coffin held no dangerous contraband. 

John sat on one of the plush benches opposite Sherlock, legs scrunched up close as to not dirty the coffin with the mud his shoes picked up outside. Sherlock himself had no such qualms. He leaned back comfortably in his seat, one foot propped on the lid.

"We can speak freely now," Sherlock said. He nodded toward the tinted glass standing between them and the driver. "The partition is sound proof." The driver was also half-deaf, or at least he pretended to be. It was something of an advantage in his line of work. 

"Who's this for?" John asked, gesturing to the coffin. From the lines of his mouth, he probably hoped it was empty. Yes, Sherlock's scientific interests were hardly breaking news, but Sherlock knew that to John this would be different. John probably had a few ideas why someone pretending to be a master criminal would be hijacking funeral cars and coffins, and none of them were very reassuring. 

"A man named John Douglas." Sherlock chose to answer the literal question instead of the underlying one, if only because he was curious about John's reaction. He continued, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture, "He's not very important." Entirely true, since Sherlock wasn't actually interested in the man himself. 

John opened his mouth to speak, but as if on cue, a mobile phone went off, interrupting their conversation for the second time that day. It wasn't Sherlock's ridiculous ring tone, but one of those old fashioned Nokia jingles that apparently hadn't died early last decade. Sherlock groaned, and resentfully removed his foot from the coffin's lid. He spent several moments fiddling with its various catches, in which time the ringing stopped only to be renewed by a second call shortly thereafter. 

Finally, Sherlock was able to remove the lid, revealing the man lying inside. John Douglas; middle aged, hairline of a twenty year old, going soft around the middle. 

Douglas was dressed in an expensive, if generic business suit. Sherlock didn't hesitate before he reached into the jacket's inner pocket (for where else would a suited man keep his mobile?) The phone turned out to be a new smartphone, instead of an indestructible antique as its ringtone suggested. _Sentimental fool._

Sherlock didn't have to check the mobile's screen to know who the caller was. "Hello Mrs. Douglas," he said, his alternate persona switching on with a bare minimum of effort. "I know I haven't given you my number, it was rather _the point_ ," He said snidely, causing to woman on the other side of the line to stumble on her words, but only for a moment. 

Sherlock sighed, cutting into the onslaught of questions. "Of course he is. And yes, your husband's execution was flawless. You can probably already download the video online." He rolled his eyes, "I don't know, one of those snuff websites. Google it. Now piss off." Unceremoniously he rolled down a window and tossed the mobile phone out of the car.

"Sorry," Sherlock said to John, who now looked at him with a weary regard. "You were saying?" 

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "Did you arrange for this man to be killed?" He asked, unconsciously placing a small pause before the word killed, as if it carried a better connotation than murdered. "Did his wife put you up to it?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. John hadn't even checked. "In a manner of speaking," he said. When John only frowned he huffed in exasperation. "John, have I taught you nothing? You look but you do not observe. This is _your_ area." 

John blinked. It took a few seconds for Sherlock's words to sink in and for John to finally look, really look, at the man lying between them. John took Douglas' wrist in hand, revealing a small tattoo on the inside of his wrist; a rectangle within a circle. Sherlock's eyebrow rose in admonishment when John glanced up at him in surprise; he found a steady pulse. John continued to examine the man's passive form, noticing, for the first time, Sherlock knew, the slight rise and fall of Douglas' chest. 

The man was perfectly still, though not stiff, pale but not deathly so. Douglas was drugged to the point of unnatural stillness, but he was obviously not dead. By all accounts, John shouldn't have been fooled. He was a trained and experienced physician, after all. However, Douglas was lying in a coffin. John simply took the truth as it was presented to him. He allowed his mind to fill in the blanks for him and jumped to conclusions. 

"You utter twat," John said in a flat tone. 

Sherlock grinned. "I have a medical examiner's report which says this man died of severe haemorrhaging brought on by multiple gunshots. Who am I to argue with a professional, John?"

"Except that no sane M.E. would ever declare this man dead," John said. "So, why is he unconscious?" John asked. 

"Sanity had nothing at all to do with it, only money, in fact." Sherlock shrugged. "They needed something to work with for appearances' sake, and it's easier to drug someone to immobility than to have them fake it."

"I meant, why is he _still_ unconscious?" 

"Oh," Sherlock made a small, non-descript sound. "Terribly dull company." 

John looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or to shout. "Right," he said, settling on neither. "Of course. Uh, you don't suppose…" He gestured at the coffin lid awkwardly. 

"Not at all," Sherlock replied, lifting the heavy lid back on the coffin, and fastening its catches back into place. "Better?"

John's expression was a little guilty. "He can breathe in there, right? I don't think these things are made for living people."

"This one was," Sherlock assured him.

"Faking people's death, that's your speciality, then?" John asked.

"It was simple enough: a few convincing actors and a lot of fake blood. We had to go through the old gunshot routine." Sherlock sighed. "Everything about this case became incredibly dull once we wrapped up the execution scene. Nevertheless, it was effective. Douglas' pursuers believe him to be dead, and will leave him alone from this point on." Sherlock propped both feet on the coffin. "Both he and his family are preparing to relocate abroad in a short time. He'll have to endure an overseas flight inside this thing," Sherlock thumped the coffin with his foot. It was a marvel of engineering, really. "That should be the end of it. Arranging for the flight though, ugh, you have no idea how many people I had to buy off along the way. It's exhausting." 

John's brows crinkled in confusion. "Why'd you bother? Wouldn't this guy get arrested by that time? I just gathered, with all that information you've given Mycroft earlier…"

"Oh, that. No, Douglas is fairly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I was actually more concerned about flushing out the group who were after him in the first place."

"Yeah, but this guy came to Moriarty for help. Not to you. He's not exactly spotless then, is he?" John argued. 

Sherlock snorted. "What difference does that make? Believe it or not, not the entire clientele is evil incarnate." 

"I can't imagine anyone involved with Moriarty who wasn't," John said, his face heating up even in the artificial chill. 

"I know your vision isn't quite so black and white, John."

"It is when it comes to Moriarty."

"You'd be surprised," Sherlock said, but decided not to elaborate on that. 

John looked at him in bemusement. "You almost sound like you're defending him." 

Sherlock paused at that. "I'm not," He said. He brought his hands to clasp before his face. "What about me?" He asked at last. 

"What about you?"

"You asked me before whether I really had this man killed. You believed I had."

John groaned. "I was just worried you were taking the role too far, that's all."

"But, John, this is just one case," Sherlock said, one finger protruding from his clasped hands for emphasis. He tapped it against his mouth, his eyes closed. "It's all right. I'd have wondered the same thing," he said. He opened his eyes, dropped his hands to his lap. "I think it's time I told you everything."

Sherlock took a deep breath before he began to talk. He started at the very beginning: how during that day, when Jim dismantled him piece by piece, he understood that Jim's intent was for him to kill himself as a final disgrace. He explained how he planned to fool Jim by faking his death, with the help of one Molly Hooper. 

Amusingly, John's mouth fell open in disbelief when Sherlock told him about Molly's involvement.

"I asked her to look out for you," Sherlock added. 

"Yes, she, she kept in touch." John mumbled. 

Sherlock's amusement died when he recalled Jim's condition, his friends or his life, and how Sherlock's hopes were dashed when Jim revealed he knew all about Sherlock's plan. That Molly was being watched as well, one last figure on the bargain. He told John about Jim's final ultimatum.

From that point onward, and without meaning to, Sherlock found himself telling John a carefully constructed version of the truth. He never lied, but he deliberately glossed over details he did not care to repeat or disclose. Not out of shame, or guilt, but something else that did not bear too much thought. It was unimportant, sentimental, and Sherlock preferred stick to the cold facts.

Whatever was left unsaid - John did not ask. He sat before Sherlock, listening, taking in everything Sherlock had to say in Sherlock's own pace. John nodded, occasionally injecting a relevant question. For the most part, he was silent; one hand covering his mouth, a slight flush rising on his cheeks. 

Sherlock told John how he studied The Network, that labyrinth of connections Jim controlled like a marionette's puppeteer. He explained how he had maintained contact with Mycroft, sabotaged as much of Jim's plans as he could, and how eventually he was able to use Jim's own campaign against him. He explained how he took over Jim's name and position, and that he had Mycroft clean up all public records of Sherlock's existence, starting from his birth certificate to his flat, making it impossible to ascertain for sure whether or not Sherlock Holmes ever existed. 

"But that's absurd. People are going to remember you whether or not you have a passport," John said. 

"Is it? It's only my childhood I needed to obscure, my connection to Mycroft, the homestead." He sighed. "There wasn't much to hide. Besides, my intent was to confuse, not convince. I'm not planning on staying in the role for that long. And speaking of, that's fairly recent," Sherlock said, slightly out of breath. "I've only been James Moriarty for a little over a week. I suppose I can see why Jim likes it." He shrugged. "I only need to say jump and-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, quiet and serious. "What now?"

"Now," he said. "We burn it. I've summoned the worst of the lot to a conference in The Berkeley hotel this Saturday, without the option of declining." Sherlock smiled, and it was a harsh, cold smile. "Some of those people you'll surely recognise, though many will arrive under false identities. The rest are fairly anonymous, which makes them even more dangerous, I suppose. Regardless, I've given Mycroft all he needs to send his team to swoop in and scoop them all up, but that's just the tip of the iceberg. After that, the rest of The Network shall crumble. Like a house made of cards." 

He sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "And then it'll be over."

"Are you coming back to Baker Street?" John asked softly. 

"Where else will I go?" Sherlock replied. The vehicle slowed to a stop. "You're home," he said. Sherlock looked out the window to what he knew was John's flat. A woman was peering out the second storey window, clearly waiting for someone to return. Her features were too obscured by the distance and the darkness to make out. John's fiancée, he supposed. 

"Now that I'm back you'll need to move closer to Baker Street, obviously. This is too far away, John." He frowned at the exasperated sigh John gave him. "What? You're only renting."

"Sherlock." 

Sherlock turned back to face John. "I'll see you again this Saturday," he said. "But I need you to do me a favour first. Here." Without bothering to wait for John's reply, he pulled out a small flash card from his pocket, holding it out in the palm of his hand. "Pass this on to Lestrade. It's important it comes from you," Sherlock said.

John reached out to take the flash card from Sherlock's outstretched hand. "What is it?" He asked. 

"An apology of sorts; I saved the best arrest for him." Sherlock paused before he added, "I know his reputation was shot because of me."

John hesitated, but then he nodded in confirmation. "You should know he's on a leave of absence right now."

"I know," Sherlock said. "Believe me; he'll want to come back for this. Tell him I sent you." 

John smiled at that. "He's going to think I lost it." 

"I'm sure you can convince him to the contrary."

"I'll give it my best shot," John said with a small laugh. "Saturday, you say?"

"I'll pick you up. With a different car." Sherlock promised. 

John nodded, and moved to exit the car. For whatever reason, his hand paused on the door handle. He turned back to Sherlock, a look of concern on his face.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asked slowly, his voice serious. 

Sherlock was taken aback at that. "Of course I'm all right," he said. 

"Just, be careful, okay?" 

"I'll see you on Saturday." Sherlock smiled. 

"Right," John nodded. He left the vehicle, which was soon once again on the move. Sherlock watched him through the window until the hearse made a sharp turn around a street corner and he lost his line of sight. He slumped back in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, willing away his fatigue.

XXX

Anyone could walk in anywhere given the right timing, or, barring that, some good connections.

Once inside the secured compound, Sherlock made his way to the inner structure. He stopped by a door labelled "Authorised Personnel Only". It was the backdoor access, used by people who, for whatever reason, needed to access the facility covertly. For the most part it was only used by visiting high ranking government officials, Sherlock's own brother, and most importantly - the cleaning staff. 

Sherlock swiped his forged security card over the magnetic reader. The small LED attached to the door panel flashed green. He keyed in a secondary access code, one that changed on a daily basis. Yes, Sherlock had very good connections indeed. 

The code was rejected. A different LED light flashed a warning red. Unperturbed, Sherlock keyed in the code a second time. Once again, it was declined. On his third attempt the green light flashed again, and the door finally opened. Had Sherlock used a different code in any of the three prompts, he would have been immediately flagged for questioning. As it was, he simply walked in.

The information he had gathered about the compound's schematics and security layout was still somewhat outdated, so Sherlock took the time he needed to make changes to his mental data; noting where new security measures had been installed and what else seemed to have changed. He twirled his forged access card around in his hand, enough to show that he had it, but not enough to permit anyone to inspect it all too closely. 

His attire had stuck out like a sore thumb among the troops he passed earlier, but this far inside the compound the prevalent dress code changed to suits and business wear. Once inside, the people around him took to his unhurried pace and aloof expression and assumed that he was supposed to be there. No one addressed him beyond the customary glance and a nod, and usually not even that. 

He came upon the compound's security room. Two bored looking men in Army fatigues sat behind an array of screens, monitoring the entire facility. Stammering an apology, Sherlock mentioned that he was new, and then asked for directions to the loo. They were only too happy to point him the way. Then he stopped by a break room. It was empty, so he took the liberty of confiscating a plain white mug and made himself a cup of coffee. He took it with him as he continued on his stroll throughout the facility. 

Coming here wasn't part of his initial plan; in fact, if it were up to him he would have been on the other side of the country and not snooping around a secured military compound. Recent revelations, however, made Sherlock's trip necessary. Specifically, that little smudge of blood he caught on the sharp tip of Mycroft's umbrella. 

Perhaps it wasn't even real blood; perhaps Mycroft was just testing him. Either way, Sherlock didn't care. He just needed to see for himself. 

He was deliberately delaying, he knew, stalling far more than he should. He did not even come close to the underground level, where his real interest lay. But no matter, he would get to that shortly. He decided it was time to make his presence known. He might as well kill two birds with one stone. 

He stepped into a spacious lift, followed by a young woman in business attire. She was one of Mycroft's, specifically. Sherlock kept his face in profile, just in case she might recognise him. She didn't. She did, however, notice the look of disdain that passed over his face when dreadfully cheerful music began to emit from the lift speakers. 

"Everybody hates it too." The woman confided, flashing him a small smile. "Sorry, are you new here?" She asked. "You seem familiar." 

Sherlock huffed out a non-verbal response. Taken aback by his rudeness, the woman fell silent, giving him one last puzzled look over her shoulder as she stepped out onto her floor. The doors closed behind her.

The lift carried him to his final stop – the top floor. He made his way to the rooftop entrance, taking the heavy padlock he brought with him in hand. Sherlock was probably going to have a bruise later where the damned thing kept bumping against him, threatening to rip the fabric of his coat pocket. He had to sneak it in with a supplies truck earlier, since he was unable to carry it on his person during the various security checkpoints leading to the compound. He used the padlock to secure the heavy metal door behind him. He didn't bring a key. 

The building wasn't tall enough to block out all sounds from below, and yet where he stood there seemed to exist an undisturbed pocket of silence. Even the wind couldn't be heard, blocked by the concrete cavern that made out the rooftop door. He paused there for a moment to enjoy the sound of silence before he carried on with his task. 

Satisfied that the door would keep, Sherlock walked to the edge. The wind caused his coat to flirt about his legs. He lifted his now empty mug over the edge - and let go. The coffee wasn't even all that good. 

He smiled when it shattered, six storeys below, startling various Uniforms and Suits alike. Now he was noticed. It wouldn't take long for them to figure out that he wasn't authorised to be there. Sherlock glanced at his watch. He estimated it would take approximately fourteen minutes for the security breach to reach Mycroft's ears. Faster than normal, perhaps, but Mycroft did have a special interest in the facility at the moment. 

News travelled fast around the compound, and very soon a crowd of spectators gathered on the ground, albeit at a safe distance from him, perfectly visible from Sherlock's vantage point on the roof. They thought he was suicidal at first, but once they confirmed he entered the facility illegally, their tone changed fast. A team of armed operatives stood almost directly below him, and attempted to persuade him to surrender. 

"Sir, I'm going to ask you one last time, put your hands where I can see them!" The soldier shouted from the ground below. Behind Sherlock, a consistent pounding could be heard as someone attempted to break down the rooftop door. 

Fourteen minutes. He decided the pandemonium was sufficient, and that he was beginning to be in real danger of getting shot. Sherlock exhaled loudly, stepping away from the edge. He pulled Jim's mobile from his pocket.

Once the call connected, he gushed sarcastically, "You'll never believe where I am right now." 

"Oh dear," Mycroft said. 

"Quite."

The banging from the locked door grew in intensity for several moments until suddenly it stopped, only to be replaced by drilling. Finally someone had the good sense to remove the door's hinges, instead of relying on brute force to get past the door. 

"You're the madman on the roof, I take it? What am I saying, of course you are," Mycroft said in clear exasperation. 

Sherlock smiled grimly. "Have you thought about our conversation?"

There was a palpable pause. "I'll be there shortly. Don't do anything _I_ might regret later," Mycroft said with a sigh. "Pass me over."

A stream of uniformed men spilled through to the roof, surrounding Sherlock, firearms pointing in his direction. Sherlock gave them a smile of pure faux cheer in greeting. He lifted one hand lazily in the air, the other still holding the phone to his ear.

"It's for you," Sherlock said, and presented the phone to the nearest soldier, who all but ripped it out of his hand. 

Sherlock allowed himself to be handcuffed and pushed back inside the building. He was led through the now familiar corridors, down to the illusive basement floor and into a bleak room with grey walls. An interrogation room, he concluded; featuring a table, two chairs, a flickering ceiling lamp and a one sided mirror. He was sat on one of the chairs with more force than was probably necessary. He rolled his eyes. _Amateurs_. 

Minutes later, a thin, flinty eyed man in a grey suit stepped through the door. He whispered something to Sherlock's appointed guard. The soldier's aggressive posture turned comical, at odds with the way his eyed widened in surprise and confusion. He moved to kneel behind Sherlock, releasing him from his handcuffs. 

"Mr. Holmes." The suited man nodded in greeting. "If you could please just wait here, thank you." He said gruffly. He looked extremely aggravated, but that had more to do with his daughter dropping out of university to pursue a singing career than with the current situation, as Sherlock noted to himself. 

"Of course," Sherlock said with a polite smile. It wiped clear off his face as soon as he was left alone. 

After what seemed like hours of idle sitting and drumming his fingers on the table, his brother finally made an appearance. Silently, Mycroft placed Jim's phone on the table between them. He remained standing, looking far from amused. Sherlock watched him expectantly, waiting for his brother to finish his stand off.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft said quietly. 

Sherlock glanced at his watch before replying, and when he did, he didn't even bother answering Mycroft's question. "Took you long enough," Sherlock commented. 

"The traffic was murder," Mycroft said dryly. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock groaned. "Spare me the lecture, Mycroft. You know why I'm here. You're obviously not going to send me away, seeing that you bothered to come in person at all." 

Mycroft pursed his lips, looking at Sherlock with that calculating look Sherlock knew so well. Usually it irritated him to the core, but right then, well, Sherlock decided he ought not to feel anything at all. 

"Do you really think this is wise?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock did not answer, merely drummed his fingers on the table, looking anywhere but at his brother. 

"Fine," Mycroft sighed. He walked to the door, speaking in hushed tones with the man standing just outside. Then he nodded, and turned back to Sherlock. 

"You have five minutes." Mycroft informed him. "Say whatever it is that needs saying, and let us be done with it." 

"Might not even need that much," Sherlock said. 

"I'll be right outside," Mycroft added unnecessarily. 

"You always are." Sherlock snapped. "Get on with it, Mycroft."

Mycroft gave him another one of his _looks_ , but then thankfully stepped out. 

Sherlock took back Jim's phone, and slipped it into his coat pocket. Left with nothing else to do but wait, he clasped his hands together over the table, sitting up straight and perfectly composed. He reminded himself that he did not feel a thing. 

Soon the door reopened, and two men walked into the small interrogation room. That is to say, one man walked, the other hobbled on his one good foot. He had a bag over his head, and his body was covered in ill-fitted clothes which were clearly only just handed to him - not hard to deduce, they were _clean_. But even tattered and off-balance, Sherlock would have recognised Jim anywhere. 

Jim was pushed down onto the seat opposite Sherlock. Only the table stood between them. The escort quickly cuffed Jim's arms and legs to the chair - no lack of caution there, if only they'd been as vigilant during Sherlock's stroll through the facility earlier – and then left, door slamming shut behind him. 

Jim waited patiently. Sherlock had no doubt Jim knew who was there with him. And yet, when Sherlock leaned over the table to lift the cloth off of Jim's head, Jim visibly started, as if he really did not realise it was Sherlock all along. 

Jim watched Sherlock through his one good eye, red with blood as it was. His other eye was swollen shut. The rest of him, what Sherlock could see, did not fare much better. It wasn't the worst state Sherlock had seen him in, generally speaking. Nothing quite compared to Jim's Silent Days. Yet Jim still trembled, pale where he wasn't black and blue. His one good eye was wide, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as his breath quickened.

Sherlock could only let loose a sigh. 

"Sherlock," Jim said in a quiet voice, as if he didn't want their observers to hear. "Sherlock, oh my God. Please, Sherlock, you've got to get me out of here," Jim continued, his voice breaking in places. He spent a moment just taking in short, sobbing breaths. "I don't know how much more I can take." 

Sherlock watched him dispassionately. "You don't say," he said dryly. 

Jim whimpered, and let his head slump down to his chest. He sighed deeply. "No, you… you don't understand." He looked up again, giving Sherlock a small, pleading smile. "They haven't even asked me any questions." 

Sherlock regarded Jim for a long moment. It seemed that perhaps his visit had been unjustified after all. 

"Well," Sherlock spoke finally. "Clearly this has been a waste of my time." He began to rise from his seat. 

Bound as he was, Jim couldn't reach out and stop him. "No, no, wait, wait." Jim called out instead, and it wasn't in that tiny, broken voice anymore. A single tear rolled down his puffed, bruised face, but the misery was no where to be seen when he started to laugh – a rattling, uneven sound that hinted at injuries or an illness far worse than the superficial.

"This is tedious, Jim," Sherlock said. "Are you quite done?"

"Sorry, I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself." Jim sniggered. "You're just so _precious_." His mouth twisted in a wide grin, revealing a chipped front tooth and several missing molars. "Let's start again. _Hi_!" He licked his cracked lips, leaning forward in his seat. "What, no kiss?" He asked. At Sherlock's blank look he sniggered again. "Nah, I suppose not." Jim drawled. "Big Brother's watching." Jim added, his head swaying from side to side. "Listening."

"You're looking better than I expected," Sherlock commented. 

"Fucking amateurs," Jim agreed cheerfully. "So, _big promotion_. Well done. Well done, indeed. How's that working out for you?"

Sherlock smiled. "The hours are terrible." 

"Oh, but look at you now, my dear." Jim said, cocking his head to better watch Sherlock with his good eye. "You know," Jim smiled. "Big Brother and I finally had the chance to get properly reacquainted. It's nice. He's so proud of you, it's just too sweet. Isn't that what you've always wanted?" He licked his cracked, bruised lips and added, "He knows all your little secrets now."

Sherlock ignored him. He watched Jim quietly, until the smile left Jim's face abruptly, like it was never really there. It didn't take much to goad him, after all, Sherlock knew him so well. 

" _Say something_." Jim hissed. 

"This is still just a game to you, isn't it?" Sherlock asked after a moment. 

The good cheer returned. Jim gasped mockingly. "Oh, honey," he said. "Tell me that's not what this is all about. Don't worry, Daddy's not angry." Jim's tongue swiped over that new gap between his front teeth. 

"You do, of course, realise what I took from you?" Sherlock asked. "Jim, _that was all you._ " He stood up suddenly with so much force his chair tumbled backwards. He leaned across the table to tower over Jim, his hands pressed to the smooth metallic surface. He was close enough to whisper in Jim's face. Jim watched him intently, no longer smiling.

"I didn't get too close." Sherlock murmured. " _You_ did, _my dear_." He straightened slowly. "There's not a place on earth where you can hide from me now." Sherlock's lips curved in a small smile. "It seems we've come full circle, then, haven't we?"

Jim inhaled sharply, his breath rattling and frail. Only there was nothing frail in the way he looked at Sherlock then. A small, knowing smile played over his lips. 

Sherlock straightened his coat. "Goodbye Jim," he said. 

Jim's voice stopped him at the door. "See you soon," Jim called out. Softly, he added, "my love."


	9. The Hag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by the lovely Mugenmine :)

Part Eight: The Hag

The hours crawled by, infuriatingly slow. 

John reminded himself once again that he was trying to act like normal. To his dismay, already two of the surgery staff, one of his patients, and a concerned fiancée had pointed out that he seemed a little distracted. John had never been blessed in the acting department, really.

"Can you take a few deep breaths for me?" John asked, absentmindedly warming the stethoscope on the palm of his hand. He glanced at the clock above his patient's head and then returned his attention back to the present.

"I don't really like the sound of that. Have you started smoking again, Mrs. Holden?" John asked, brow furrowing. At least there wasn't a shortage of patients to keep him busy, thanks to the flu pandemic that had been making the rounds despite (or because of) the warming weather. 

Every now and then he would pat the pocket of his white coat, as if to reassure himself that the flash drive was still in his possession, safe and sound. Sherlock had asked him to deliver it to Lestrade, and he intended to do just that. But not before he had the chance to actually see what was on it. 

Mrs. Holden thanked him before leaving, a referral for a chest radiograph in hand. Instead of letting in his next patient, John reached for the phone. He stared at it for a moment in contemplation before dialling. 

Mycroft hadn't been answering his calls for the past three years, but John hoped that yesterday had put a stop to that nonsense. He drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited for the call to connect. John had no intention of mentioning anything that happened last night – he didn't know how safe it was to speak in his office – but he could still arrange for a meeting with Mycroft, who in turn could get him in touch with Sherlock. 

Or at least he would have, if Mycroft were to answer his phone. But as usual, the call went to voicemail. John hung up with a sigh, and decided not to leave a rude message for a change. It was a long shot anyway. While John phoning Mycroft wasn't outside the realm of normality, Mycroft picking up was. 

_Inconspicuous, Watson, remember?_ John thought. He wasn't surprised, but, damn it, he still hoped. 

Sherlock had said to be ready on Saturday. But, he didn't specify _when_ , exactly, or _where_ John needed to be. John's mind had been reeling too much last night to even think about asking. It was, fine, a very _Sherlock_ thing to do; expecting John to be on his beck and call. That was what he was there for. John didn't really have a problem with that. 

He did have a problem with the number of questions he still had. He didn't know if he could wait a full four days until Saturday for them to be answered. He wanted to talk to Sherlock _now_. 

When John woke up that morning, he assumed that last night had been nothing more than a strange dream. While dragging himself out of bed, he had idly wondered why his mind conjured up a tale like that. It had been a while since he last dreamt of Sherlock, something which filled him with a mixture of guilt and gratitude.

He _had_ thought that it was strange, regardless; he'd never actually fainted in a dream before, or gone on a joyride inside a funeral car with not one, but _two_ breathing corpses. It was only when he caught sight of the tabloid with Sherlock's face plastered all over it that he realised yesterday really came true. 

He found the flash drive where he'd hidden it: in his bedside drawer, inside a rolled up sock. He wanted to check its contents straight away, but Mary's presence made that difficult. He didn't tell her anything, despite desperately needing somebody to talk to. She would have been the obvious – and most convenient – choice, but he didn't want to involve her just yet. 

Mary never even knew Sherlock outside of John's stories. Maybe it was selfish, but John didn't think she would've understood what it felt like to have him back. 

There was also the matter of secrecy. Sherlock and Mycroft had obviously been worried about it last night. Sherlock said that Moriarty's people had been keeping an eye on John all this time. What if they never _stopped?_ All it took was for Sherlock to have overlooked something. 

Someone still loyal to Moriarty. 

A little slip, and everything Sherlock had worked for would've gone down the drain. John would die before he'd be the one to cause that. For now he just needed to act like nothing had changed. 

It occurred to him, during the tube ride to work, that it was probably a very good thing he hadn't plugged the flash drive into his own computer that morning. If someone was still monitoring him, they might not have settled on doing it from afar. What if his phone was tapped? His computer? What about the ones at the surgery? 

Maybe he was just being paranoid. If anyone out there was still stalking him, it was probably just Mycroft and his CCTV cameras. Still, John couldn't ignore that nagging concern. He'd rather be paranoid than be dead, any day. 

John sighed, index finger drawing circles against his temple. If it weren't for the flash drive in his pocket, he would have started to think that he was cracking. At least he had proof, and with that, a job to do. 

He reached for the phone again. This time the call was picked up almost immediately.

"Hello?" Lestrade answered. 

"Greg, hi. Er, how are you?" John said, wincing at the fake casualness in his voice. _Act normal_ , he berated himself. _Phone tapping, remember?_

"Hey John," Lestrade replied. "I tried calling you last night. Are you all right?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine," John said, confused. "Why… why wouldn't I be?"

"I do still follow your blog." Lestrade's voice was grim. "Don't take it personally, mate. The tabloids… they'll sink their teeth into anything that moves. And, well, anything that _doesn't_." 

"Oh, that," John answered, a beat too late. _Oh, Greg, if you only knew…_

John had completely forgotten about the article since the morning. "Yeah, bloody rag mags. Say, are you doing anything tonight?"

Lestrade seemed taken aback at John's flippant attitude. His voice carried a note of confusion. "Well, I was planning on catching up with the housework… so not really?"

"I thought we could go have a beer, maybe," John suggested. 

Lestrade groaned comically. "Did you have to say the B word?" 

"Shit, I forgot," John said, slapping his knee. There he was, doctor of the year. Offering alcohol to someone who'd nearly died of liver failure. 

"Sorry. How are you feeling?" John asked. 

"Great, really," Lestrade said in a joyful tone. "Actually, did I tell you? I'm coming back to work next month."

"Really? That's fantastic!" John said. He didn't say anything about needing to cut Lestrade's leave even shorter. Sherlock had suggested it, but John wondered if Sherlock even knew about Lestrade's illness. He probably did know; he seemed to know a lot about what was going on in John's life last night… or maybe that was just Sherlock being Sherlock, noticing everything on the spot. It was hard to tell with him. 

A lot of things were hard to tell with Sherlock, these days. There was obviously room for concern; Mycroft had implied that pretty strongly, last night. The more he thought about it, the more his unease grew.

Lestrade's voice brought him back to reality. "John?"

"Sorry, spaced out for a moment," John said sheepishly. "So, about tonight…"

"Pub?" Lestrade asked. "You can buy me something non-alcoholic and depressing." 

"No, not the pub," John said, a little too quickly. Then he remembered that he was trying to be secretive without _appearing_ to be secretive. Maybe someplace with loud music and lots of people could actually work in their favour. He read that in a book once. 

"Wait. You know what," John said. "Pub would be great. Actually, there's a new place I wanted to try…" He cleared his throat again. "Uh, why don't I just come and pick you up in person? Easier than explaining where to go…" he finished lamely. 

"'Course," Lestrade said, less upbeat than he'd been before. He was obviously suspecting something, but he knew better than to push John over the phone. 

They set up to meet later that evening. John decided he would sneak the flash drive under the table, tell Lestrade exactly what Sherlock had been up to in the most concise way possible, and then instruct Lestrade to keep quiet and check the drive someplace with great security. Say, Scotland Yard. 

But before he would do all of that, John was going to make sure he knew exactly what he was handing over. 

When his lunch hour came, John stepped into one of the surgery's side offices and locked the door behind him. It was a cramped, cluttered little room with no windows, used mainly for administrative purposes. It had a workstation which was only manned during the morning hours, and so it suited John's needs perfectly. 

He reckoned that even if his own office was monitored, the rest of the surgery was safe. Well, he hoped. 

He ducked under the table in order to pull out the internet cable. He cursed when he accidentally disconnected the monitor instead. When he got up after sorting out the cables, he bumped his head against the edge of the table.

Eyes watering, he plugged the flash drive into the USB port. He really, really hoped no one was actually monitoring him. 

The flash drive revealed a wealth of information. John frowned; he would have to be quick about it if he wanted to get through everything. He skimmed the list of folders; they were arranged in codenames that didn't much make sense to him, but at least they were dated. 

He started with the earliest one, a folder titled "TEH301 – RA – OCT 2005". He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find, but a ten-year-old death certificate from Leeds probably wasn't it. 

The deceased was a young man, barely out of his teens. The cause of death was simply written down as a homicide. The next few documents – police reports from the look of them (how did Sherlock manage to get his hands on those?) – expanded on that:

The boy was shot in the head once by an unknown assailant. The bullet, a short to mid range .30 mm, made an entry wound above the victim's right ear, devastating his neural tissue before lodging itself in his skull. Death had been instantaneous.

The gunshot came through an open window, six floors up. The victim wasn't aware of the immanent danger; he was still chewing his meal when he'd been struck. Beans on toast – John hoped his last meal had been a good one. 

The next few files John went through were just newspaper scans from that time period, all of them dealing with the homicide. John continued reading in fascination. " _Mysterious Murder in Harehills_ ," the newspapers cried. John could imagine how a headline like that would've caught Sherlock's attention back then. _Impossible shot_ , John read. _Police baffled_. 

_Not impossible_ , John mused, having his own share of experience with firearms. _Just one sniper with a hell of an aim._

The rest of the data surrounding the incident seemed to be gathered at random. Confirmations of money transfers between accounts (sums that made John's head spin), screenshots of hideously designed web-pages, a technical guide for a .30 Calibre M1 Carbine semi-automatic rifle, a seemingly random scan of a military discharge paper, and endless chat logs, which grew more malicious and threatening the further John read. 

The last file in the folder contained only a set of directions and a smiley face. 

All the information in the flash drive seemed to circulate around the former soldier whose discharge papers John came across previously. The more he read, the more obviously it became: ex- Col. Sebastian Moran, formerly of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, was an _exceptionally_ dangerous man. 

Moran had served two terms abroad, but he'd been discharged several years before John. There was a folder full of classified information detailing Moran's military career. The words "top secret" stood out at the top of every document. 

From what John could tell, Moran’s military record was spotless. The official reviews held nothing but gushing praise for the man's camaraderie and skills. In fact, Moran had exceeded all expectations. He'd breezed through the ranks, and was eventually assigned to a unit John had never even heard of before. 

Everything seemed to be going well for Moran… until he was shipped home prematurely. _Medical_ , John read with a frown, but nothing really seemed to add up about it. 

John knew a military cover-up when he saw one. How shady was it, that the formerly highly-esteemed soldier had been honourably discharged, but still stripped of his rank? 

The continuously mounting evidence seemed to suggest that, after his discharge, Moran had built himself a career as an assassin for hire. There were photographs of him in action, communication logs, even audio and video files. Someone had been monitoring his activities from the start.

Moran was in high demand, from the look of it. His work fees alone made John feel light-headed. And he'd been _busy_. The flash drive contained evidence of his gunprint from every corner of the world. He was a wanted man, it seemed, though no one seemed to know who he really was. 

John continued skimming through the rest of the files. They were becoming disjointed as the timeline progressed. He stopped on a folder titled "TGG0103 – BW- APR 2010" and his heart skipped a beat when he realised he knew the case. Very, very well. 

The explosion that devastated a block of flats in Glasgow was initially reported as a gas leak by the media. John knew it was anything but. Twelve people had died that day, including a helpless, blind old woman who'd been wrapped up in enough Semtex to bring down a large building. The explosives were set up to activate by sniper fire… and now John knew exactly who had pulled that trigger. 

It didn't escape John's attention that there was no mention of James Moriarty anywhere within the files. John already knew for sure that this Moran character was directly connected to Moriarty, but from the contents of the flash drive, one could assume that Moran was working alone. That didn't sit right with John. 

A knock on the door interrupted his reading. 

"Just a second!" he called out, pulling the flash drive from the computer's USB port. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he could make sure the information didn't stay on some temporary folder. He had no idea how to go about checking that, so he just shut down the computer, hoping that would be enough. Then he pocketed the drive, and went to unlock the door. 

"Dr. Watson," John's colleague, Dr. Edward Moore, said in greeting. He looked down at John in disapproval. Dr. Moore was a tall, older gentleman, who never did much to hide his disdain of John. Well, John's blog, really. It was very often the talk of the staff. 

"Sorry, I needed to get some supplies," John said, gesturing at the cabinets furtively. "I'll be off, then." 

"Not to worry," Dr. Moore said. "Although I do hope you cleaned up after yourself, young man," The elderly physician added, sending John a sharp look over his thick rimmed glasses. 

"Err… Yes, right. Of course," John stammered, and then, realising what his colleague was implying, blushed furiously. His fervent denials were met with a knowing smirk. Mortified, John excused himself.

John collapsed into a chair back in his own office. He still had ten more minutes before his next appointment, and he thought about quickly running off to get something to eat. Truth be told, though, he didn't have much of an appetite. 

At least now he had an idea about _who_ Sherlock was going to hand over to Lestrade. Catching someone like Moran – it would make Greg's career. Lestrade had clung to his job and position by the skin of his teeth, thanks to his illness and his involvement with Sherlock. He'd tasted early retirement, which made him miserable.

But Lestrade wasn't the only one who'd been miserable. John returned his thoughts back to Sherlock and last night. Not that they ever strayed very far away. 

If there was one thing John knew for sure, it was that Sherlock hadn't been completely honest with him. John might not be a Holmes, but he wasn't an idiot, either. Sherlock's behaviour had been… off, at times. 

Like when he was explaining to John how he had spent the last three years in Moriarty's company. It wasn't that John was expecting Sherlock to be emotional about it, far from it. Yet, Sherlock had been down right robotic, detached, like he was talking about someone else's life. 

John was fairly sure Sherlock had rehearsed the entire speech beforehand. He said a lot, but at the same time very little. ("We were in Bolivia during the riots three years ago, did you hear about them?" Sherlock had asked, but didn't wait for John's reply. "It was a complete coincidence, us being there at the time, but it gave me my first opportunity. The house we were staying in was under siege, and I managed to slip away in the chaos. Jim was livid," Sherlock had said, matter-of-fact, "but I was able to convince him I had no choice. I found someone, a UN contact of Mycroft’s, who passed along my message. Right after that we flew to Budapest…" and on he went, barely pausing for breath.)

There were also the few times when Sherlock had been legitimately channelling Moriarty. John only met the man on a few memorable occasions, but he had always been struck by how absolutely blood-curdling _chilling_ Moriarty was underneath his inflated mannerisms. That was the only part of Moriarty that Sherlock was using, but he used it _well_. Sherlock was utterly convincing in his performance. Enough to unnerve even John.

Sherlock had been right last night. John _had_ been wondering what sort of pull Moriarty had over him, how much he had changed because of it. John couldn't believe the last three years had left Sherlock unscathed. God, it was such a long time to be spent in the company of a psychopath like Moriarty. 

It couldn't have been easy for Sherlock. The more John thought about, the more horrified he became at his initial reaction. All of John's thoughts yesterday were about himself; how _he'd_ handled the last three years, how much he'd been kept in the dark. It didn't even occur to him to consider what Sherlock had to put up with, just to protect John and the others. 

John felt rotten. _Not easy? Ha, there's an understatement._

John had been cross with Sherlock in the past, for his fascination with Moriarty and that great, stupid game they'd been playing. Well, Sherlock didn't seem to be enjoying it anymore. Sherlock should have been _elated_ , thrilled that he'd beaten Moriarty at his own game. But in fact, Sherlock just seemed _tired_.

And as for Moriarty… John couldn't even begin to understand the madman's motivations. In the beginning, Moriarty just wanted to destroy Sherlock, burn him to a crisp. Why would he then decide to whisk him away to a life of crime? So he could have an audience for his madness? 

Moriarty must have known Sherlock wouldn't stand for it, no matter what was at stake. He'd never just _bend over_ without a fight. 

John felt a cold chill pass through him, and he shook his head to wash away the mental image. A pit seemed to form in his stomach as he recalled, with growing horror, the one sided hug he and Sherlock had shared last night. Or rather, Sherlock's reaction to it. 

Sherlock never had an aversion to touch, as far as John knew. It was _John_ who normally preferred a solid handshake to anything else. The way Sherlock had stiffened, not really recoiling but bracing himself, like he had expected John would hurt him? That was definitely new.

 _No_ , John thought, covering his flaming face with both hands. There was no way. Sherlock probably just expected John would punch him, or something. That was all. 

_Get your mind out of the gutter, Watson_ , he chastised. Moriarty was _obsessed_ with Sherlock, true, but it was an _intellectual_ obsession. It was their thing, great big geniuses who got bored. Puzzles and riddles and mind games, nothing else. Moriarty was sick, but not like _that_. Not in such a carnal, basic way.

And besides, things like just didn't _happen_ to grown men, not outside of prisons. And even then, Sherlock would have been able to fight off a scrawny runt like Moriarty, any day. 

The day at the pool, Moriarty had looked at Sherlock like he wanted to devour him. But that was just part of his game, a way to throw Sherlock out of his comfort zone. That was all it ever was between them, a game. And one which was definitely over. 

John would make sure of that, one way or another.

  


XXX

Sherlock woke up with a choked gasp.

He lay on his side, still caught in the no-man's land between wakefulness and sleep. He couldn't move at all. Even lifting his eyelids was a chore. His gaze darted freely about the room, but his limbs were heavy and useless, paralysed in a dream-like state. There was no point in fighting it; his body simply wouldn't cooperate.

Sherlock was all too aware of the presence in the bed with him. The figure was stretched out half behind him, half _on top_ of him, pressing against Sherlock in a mockery of an embrace. Sherlock couldn't see who it was, couldn't even turn his head around to _look_ , but he could hear the heavy breathing in his ear. It was distinctly male. 

The weight of the man (creature?) was uncomfortable to the point of pain. Sherlock was having difficulty breathing with it on top of him. The unnatural gasps and pants in his ear were becoming increasingly loud, almost deafening. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, the only movement he was currently capable of. He wanted desperately to get away, but he knew that even if he could run, he would never have been able to outrun it. 

After all, he couldn't outrun his own mind. 

It seemed so absurd that, while on the brink of waking, Sherlock couldn't control his own imagination. Both the terror and the presence, as real as they seemed to him at that moment, were entirely fictional. Nothing more than the combined by-product of his hyperactive imagination and less than ideal sleep cycle. A small part of him was aware that what he was experiencing wasn't quite real. 

He could do nothing to stop it, regardless of how disconcerting the experience always had been. Eventually, it would go away on its own. There was nothing Sherlock could do to hasten it. 

He rode it out; waiting for his body to catch up with his mind and for his mind to catch up with reality. He forced himself to breathe in and out slowly, knowing that there wasn't _actually_ anything weighing down his airway, and let the tension leave his body with the force of his exhales. 

His body un-paralysed as it awoke, and with it the ominous presence disappeared, turning back into the bundled duvet it always was. The feeling of the duvet was no longer uncomfortable or even remotely painful, but he pushed it off the bed anyway, irate at his own mind for playing tricks on him, and for robbing him off of what little rest he had managed. 

It wasn't the first waking nightmare he ever had, but he hadn't experienced anything like that in a while. Perversely, he used to sleep much better back when he had Jim's spidery limbs all over him. Perhaps he got too used to sharing a bed with someone else, even an unwelcome presence, that his mind had invented another one to replace it. 

Or maybe he should just leave the half-baked psychology to people who had time for such nonsense. Sherlock rubbed the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, and then let his arm flop back to the mattress with an irritated snort. 

Even stretched out as he was on his side, Sherlock still occupied nothing but a small fraction of the bed. Its sheer size was baffling; too big for a _ménage à trois_ , let alone a single person. Everything in it was custom-made; from its frame to the plump mattress to the exquisite sateen sheets that felt incredibly soft under his naked skin. 

It was an oasis of comfort, but Sherlock still hadn't managed to sleep more than three hours at best. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table confirmed that estimation to be correct. Sherlock didn't feel at all rested, but neither did he wish to go back to sleep. Certainly not after that unfortunate bout of sleep paralyses. 

Limbs still sluggish with sleep, Sherlock moved to sit at the edge of the bed. He felt as though he ought to be tense. After all, a big day was ahead of him. The rebirth of Sherlock Holmes. What a laugh. 

For whatever reason, Sherlock recalled Jim's waking habits. He was often disgustingly cheery upon awakening. Occasionally, however, Jim needed to be dragged out of bed, or he would lapse into a homicidal depression. _That_ stopped being funny very fast. Once he was up on his feet, however, Jim would always stretch and roll his neck until his bones cracked, making Sherlock wince involuntarily. At times Sherlock thought Jim was trying to break out of his own skin. 

Sherlock froze abruptly when he realised he was imitating Jim's waking ritual, and then cursed himself for his knee-jerk reaction. He had lived with the man for three years, after all. He was bound to have picked up some of his mannerisms along the way. Rolling his neck? Probably one of the least irritating ones, all things considered.

Sherlock rose from the bed with a sigh. The floor felt cool between the patterns of scar tissue on his feet. He pulled the fine sheets off the mattress, and then wrapped them tightly around his body. There was not much point, he knew. He was completely alone in the flat. But he did like the feeling of the sateen against his skin. 

There was also the matter of feeling strangely vulnerable without another layer over his skin, but he didn't feel the need to dwell on that. Sherlock had spent quite enough time feeling vulnerable. 

The sheets dragged behind him on the floor. He felt like an alien in the flat's near-sterile atmosphere. Everything was bland and perfectly in place; from the stark white colour theme to the unnatural _cleanliness_. Sound proof walls and windows ensured that no sounds carried from the outside world. Between the unnatural quiet and the flat's interior design (expensive yet sparse furniture, near-colourless ornaments, untouched kitchen equipment and a tub that battled with the bed for sheer size) the message was clear: "look, but don't touch." 

The trail of clothing leading from the front door to the bed, as well as the latter's disarrayed state were the only indications someone had ever disturbed the sterile tranquillity of the posh flat other than to scrub it clean. Sherlock had never felt more homesick in his life. 

He didn't think Jim had ever set foot inside the flat. That was part of the reason Sherlock had chosen it for his temporary dwelling. There was nothing unusual about it; despite dubbing the little cottage in the country their "home", Jim owned a slew of real estate assets from London to Beijing. Most of them had hardly ever been used. Jim just liked owning them. Jim liked owning _things_. 

Sherlock ran his fingers over a delicate, crystal vase. He was rather tired of pointless luxury. In a feat of aggravation he tipped it over the edge, watching as it shattered into a dozen sparkling pieces. He knelt down to lift a broken shard, avoiding the sharp edges as he rolled the precious crystal between his thumb and forefinger. Destroying yet another thing Jim owned did nothing to elevate his mood. He chucked the shard back into the pile of broken fragments on the floor.

Sherlock stepped over the mess and sat on the lavish sofa. He ought to have been tired, but he was growing restless with anticipation. Less than twenty-four hours, that was all. In less than a day's time he'd be able to return home. 

To be Sherlock Holmes again. He wasn't sure he even remembered _how_. That life felt like it belonged to someone else now. A small part of him wondered if he really wanted to go back, if he even could. Perhaps he should just disappear, try his luck someplace else. 

He ruffled his hair with both hands. He'd have tomorrow and the rest of his life to worry about all of that. Begrudgingly, he got up from his comfortable sitting position and retrieved his mobile phone. There was a conversation he was long overdue for. He might as well get it over with. 

"It's five o'clock in the morning," Mycroft said in lieu of greeting. There wasn't a hint of fatigue in his voice. Not surprising; between the two of them, Mycroft was the worst insomniac by far. 

"Ah, stating the obvious now, I see," Sherlock replied. 

"And a good morning to you too, brother," Mycroft said. He was typing something, from the sound of it; the tapping of his keyboard audible over the phone. He wasn't giving Sherlock his full attention, which was fine by Sherlock at the moment. 

Sherlock worried his lower lip. He owed Mycroft much. For backing him up, and allowing Sherlock to execute his plan without interference – that, Sherlock knew, took enormous effort on Mycroft's part. 

He also owed Mycroft for watching over the people Sherlock cared about. Jim had never forgotten about the ultimatum, and he made damn sure Sherlock hadn't, either. He'd only acted out on his threat a few times, whenever he conceived that Sherlock had "misbehaved", and it was only thanks to Mycroft's covert interference that the attempts had been unsuccessful… for the most part. 

By doing that, Jim had only managed to convince Sherlock to push through with his plan. Sherlock knew that no matter how hard he might try; neither he nor his friends would ever be safe as long as Jim had so much power. 

Nevertheless, none of it would have been possible if it weren't for Mycroft's help. It was not… unappreciated, but Sherlock _hated_ being indebted to his brother. The two of them had always kept score, and Sherlock was currently so very far behind. 

He purposefully ignored the little voice that suggested Mycroft had everything to gain from Sherlock's involvement with Jim, and its eventual outcome. 

"Well?" Mycroft said when Sherlock still hadn't spoken. "Did you just miss the sound of my voice?"

Sherlock snorted. "I've heard enough from you to last me a lifetime, Mycroft." He shifted in his seat in an unconscious attempt to buy himself time. "Is everything ready for tonight?"

Mycroft hummed an affirmative. "Yes, of course." He stopped typing. "But you already knew that. Why have you really called, Sherlock?"

Well, of course Mycroft would pick up on that immediately. Sherlock choked back a sigh, instead opting to roll his eyes. That hadn't passed Mycroft by either, as his next words were: "There's nothing up there but the ceiling." 

Sherlock scowled, (and no doubt Mycroft sensed that too). Someday he'd find out how Mycroft did that. Sherlock already had the flat scanned for bugs _twice_. 

"Sherlock?" Now there was a touch of concern in Mycroft's voice. Sherlock bristled. 

"I thought I should thank you." It was hard to come out and say it, but there was no sense in drawing it out. "So, _thank you_ ," Sherlock said with a lot more bite than he intended. He really was rubbish at this sort of thing, wasn't he?

Luckily, Mycroft did not gloat over that. Instead he said, "For what, Sherlock?"

"Don't be thick." 

A long pause followed. "You have nothing to thank me for," Mycroft said at last. 

"But I do," Sherlock argued, swallowing the terrible lump in his throat. "Isn't it _hateful_?" 

There was the distinct sound of a chair being dragged back, and Sherlock imagined his brother must have stepped up to pour himself a drink. Preparing himself for a drawn out conversation, most likely.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not interested in a heartfelt discussion, for God's sake. We're both grown men. Won't you just… accept my gratitude?" Again, that came out snider than he intended. He should really work on his thankful voice.

"Do you need me to come by, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock pursed his lips. He wasn't completely horrified by the mere suggestion, but the whole point of this conversation was to settle the score a bit, not put him further in Mycroft's debt.

"God, no," he said, injecting the usual amount of disdain into his voice. 

This of course, didn't fool Mycroft. "Are you sure? I'm less than ten minutes away. You could sulk at me in person."

Sherlock stiffened. He was suddenly very cold. "Is that so?"

Mycroft voice hadn't betrayed his confusion. "Yes?"

"How do you know where I am?" Sherlock demanded furiously. 

Mycroft didn't skip a beat. " _You_ told me, several days ago. We do speak to one another an awful lot lately."

"Nice try," Sherlock said, scowling and not caring whether or not Mycroft knew it this time. 

Mycroft started saying something else, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He dropped the hand holding the phone to his side, and walked to the nearest window. After drawing back the opaque curtains, he observed the quiet, posh little neighbourhood with a critical eye. 

An elderly jogger was doing stretches just below Sherlock's window. A young couple were sitting together on a nearby bench, talking quietly to one another and exchanging the occasional kiss. All the windows in the adjacent building were darkened, but that did not mean much at all. A police car was parked a short distance away. 

Sherlock lifted the phone back to his ear. "Get rid of them," he ordered. 

Mycroft tried again, injecting just the right amount of confusion into his voice. "What are you talking about?" 

"Your people. _Call them back_ ," Sherlock hissed. He wrapped the white sheet securely around himself, and stalked out into the street. The elderly jogger gasped with surprise at the sight of him, and Sherlock graced him with a two fingered salute. He made a beeline to the police car. 

"Sherlock, for goodness' sake…" Mycroft said in exasperation. 

Sherlock ignored him. The two policemen startled when he knocked on the driver's side window. 

"What's the matter?" the driver said as he rolled down the window. Sherlock poked his head inside, glaring at the seated pair. His lip curled at the obvious faults in their disguises. Not really policemen, but Mycroft's men.

Sherlock straightened, and turned his back on the police car. He started making his way down the street, searching for more spies in his vicinity. There was a CCTV camera hanging from a nearby post, which began following his movements. Behind him, he could hear the police car speeding off into the night. 

"I sent them away," Mycroft said. "Go back inside, now." 

"Not until you call the rest of them off," Sherlock replied with a sigh. He stopped under the post, glaring up at the camera, phone held firmly to his ear. "You don't expect me to think you only have two people on the scene? You _never_ have just two people."

A little old lady was watching him intently from an overhead window, but Sherlock couldn't care less. "Why don't you go build an overpass? Spend the taxpayer's money on something useful for once."

"Sherlock, you've haven't paid taxes a day in your life," Mycroft said.

"Don't change the subject," Sherlock growled. "You have no reason to keep spying on me, Mycroft. It's over, we agreed!" 

There was a short pause. "I'm only thinking of your safety." 

"I have everything under control," Sherlock said. Nevertheless, he started making his way back to the flat. The once spotless white sheet dragged behind on the pavement. 

"Clearly," Mycroft said pleasantly. 

It irked Sherlock to the very bone that Mycroft was holding himself back just because Sherlock was compiling with his request. He came to an abrupt stop before the flat's front doors. 

"There will be no more surveillance," Sherlock said. "No spies, no cameras. Enough." 

"Fine," Mycroft said, a little too quickly. 

"I'm not asking you to take it into consideration," Sherlock growled. "Promise me!" 

"Sherlock, get back into the house, now," Mycroft said, voice full of steel. "We'll talk about it later." 

"We'll talk about it right now," Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said calmly. " _I am not your enemy_. No one is stalking you. I'm simply trying to guarantee your safety. Have you forgotten you are still a dead man? Did you even stop to think about who could have seen you when you walked out of that door?" 

"My safety is my concern, Mycroft, _not yours_ ," Sherlock hissed. 

"It bloody well is my concern, you puerile little _idiot_ ," Mycroft finally snapped, not quite yelling, but he didn't have to. "You put yourself needlessly at risk – jeopardising the entire operation _just to prove a point_!"

Sherlock froze with his hand on the door handle. "Don't worry, dear brother," he said quietly, "you will get your due tonight." 

He disconnected the call with a sweep of his thumb.

  


XXX

I have a job for you. You'll like it. JM  
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:15] 

**_cant wait  
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:19] _ **

**_so  
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:21] _ **

Bart's Hospital. Be there at 8PM, tonight.  
You know the vantage point. Go and wait for my cue.  
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:22]

**_tonight? dont u need me at the berk?  
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:24] _ **

Obviously not.  
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:25]

**_whos the t?  
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:26] _ **

Considering the location I've just given you, who do you think?  
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:27]

It's Dr. Watson, you ninny.  
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:27]

**_give me a mo will u? just woke up. so y now?  
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:29] _ **

**_boss?  
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:47] _ **

**_Here, happy? Fuck's sake, James. Why now?  
[Msg. Received Sat. 05:50] _ **

Why not?  
[Msg. Sent Sat. 05:51]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, and thanks a lot for reading! First of all, I'm terribly sorry for another cliff hanger XD 
> 
> Just a couple of things, really. I usually prefer to avoid explaining myself in the notes, but I feel the need to apologise for some of the content in this chapter.
> 
> 1\. John's opinions are in no way a reflection of my own. I'm sure you know which part I'm referring to. It was a bit upsetting to write, actually, but I felt it was necessary. This is up to character interpretation, but I think that as a white male his age, even with his profession, John would be prone to having certain prejudices that he would need to overcome. Hopefully not within earshot of Sherlock, but I can't make any promises. 
> 
> 2\. If you weren't familiar with the phenomenon before, in this chapter Sherlock was experiencing something called sleep paralysis. It's a real sleep disorder, which is actually not uncommon. 
> 
> What most people experience is basically the same: waking up without the ability to move or speak, and seeing/feeling a sinister presence hovering nearby. Throughout the ages, many people reported seeing an old witch. Because of that, the phenomenon is also known as The Old Hag Syndrome. 
> 
> Google for more nightmare fuel :) 
> 
> Thanks again for reading and sorry, once again, for the long wait between chapters. This story is becoming increasingly more difficult to write the closer we get to the conclusion, but that only makes it more satisfying. I'd say we have around four more chapters to go, so please do bear with me :)


	10. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it’s been ages. I’m really sorry. Real life - love it, hate it, can’t exist without it. 
> 
> A recap, since it’s been so long: Sherlock took over Jim’s life and is planning a heist that takes all of Jim’s friends with it. Moran is planning to shoot John. John is trying very hard to be helpful. Lestrade got a special delivery full of interesting information. Jim is crazy and Mary is… out visiting her cousin, probably. 
> 
> This chapter is not beta-read at the moment. Sorry.

 

John’s front door had been painted bright red. The previous tenant was a whimsy sort of fellow,  the kind who would take the time to paint his own door, but not artistically inclined enough to choose the proper sort of paint. It was flaking off at places, and bloated where it once came into contact with water. The previous tenant was a smoker as well, and he kept a pet in the flat, even though the owner hadn’t allowed it. A cat, most likely of mixed breed. 

 

Sherlock had been standing before John’s door for quite some time. 

 

It was ridiculous. He should have been feeling the high that so often came at the climax of The Game. Instead, his mouth was dry, his heart was hammering, and he had to consciously stop his hands from shaking. Jim would have laughed if he could see him now. Irritated, Sherlock let out a puff of air and forced himself to equilibrium. He raised his hand to knock, but then his knuckles only met empty air. 

 

"You are a terrible, terrible host, John Watson," Sherlock said, staring down the barrel of a gun, and beyond it, John’s bewildered expression. 

 

A shrug. “Thought I saw a shadow under the door.” To his credit, John recovered quickly. He stepped back, waving Sherlock inside with his armed hand. Sherlock observed with satisfaction that John looked like he was ready to  go , fit to dash out at a moment’s notice, outdoors shoes laced and gun now tucked discreet but in reach. 

 

With beautiful punctuality, Sherlock’s phone rang. “Thirty minutes, give or take. That’s a go,” he said, before pocketing his mobile. He glanced at the sitting room, taking in the details of John’s current life. “This is… nice.” he offered. He supposed that was the sort of thing people said.

 

“Is it?” 

 

Sherlock shrugged. There were four cups of tepid tea on the coffee table, and evidence of a well-paced rug. “You didn’t have to wait indoor the whole day. Interesting events seldom take place before six p.m.” 

 

“Well, someone could have let me know when he was planning on showing up,” John grumbled. “So, what’s the plan, then? and before you ask, I already sent your regards to Lestrade. He took the drive, but he also asked me if I’m still seeing my therapist, so there’s that.” 

 

“Well, you are.”

 

“Shut up,” John said, without heat. He was eyeing Sherlock strangely. A week’s worth of brewing questions waiting to burst from his lips. He ended up settling on the one Sherlock did not expect. “Why are you dressed like that?”

 

Sherlock blinked. He was dressed quite normally. Suit, coat, scarf, hardly anything irregular. He glanced down at himself but spotted no stains or tears. “Is this really the time to dispense fashion advice, John?” he asked, eyebrows raised at John’s own corner-shop attire. “Because,  no .” 

 

“I just meant, you can’t be that cold,” John said. “You even got gloves on.” 

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and stood a little straighter. “Your point being?” 

 

John’s mouth twitched, like he was not quite sure what to do with it. “Just… making an observation. That’s all.” 

 

“No, no, please,” Sherlock said, voice low. “Speak your mind. What brilliant deduction have you made?” 

 

“I haven’t-” John shifted his weight from one foot to another. He was smiling a little, the way he sometimes did when he was uncomfortable. “Look, it’s fine.”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed. He turned his back to John, intent to leave. The view of his gloved hand on the door handle spurred him to twist back, stalking back into the apartment with aggravated steps. He pulled one of his gloves off, almost violently, before presenting his right hand for John to inspect. 

 

“Here,” he growled. “As you’re so  curious .” 

 

John was startled, to say the least. He seemed hesitant to look down at the proffered hand. Cool professionalism soon took over, though, as he gently took Sherlock’s hand in his own. It was inevitable that sooner or later someone would comment on the many marks Jim had left on him. He simply rather hoped for later. 

 

Sherlock looked away from John’s darkening expression. He felt his palm being handled gently, as John examined the small, misshapen puncture marks that looped around it. The scars were old and pale, acquired back in the days Sherlock fought back.  

 

"Barbwire," he explained curtly. 

 

"Been doing much fence climbing, then?" John offered a way out,  though clearly not believing it himself. 

 

"Nothing escapes you," Sherlock replied dryly.  

 

John continued in his examination, attention evidently shifting to the pinkie finger Sherlock couldn’t quite bend all the way. "When did this happen?" John asked. 

 

"Almost two years ago." Sherlock answered, "It doesn't bother me." 

 

Sherlock saw John’s nod from the corect of his eye. He was still looking away, but when John began to push his sleeve up, he withdrew abruptly, nearly stumbling as he backed away. He managed to knock a vase in his retreat. Broken bits of glass scattered across the floor. 

 

“When I’ll require a complete physical check - up,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “I’ll schedule an appointment,  Doctor .”

 

John was wide eyed in alarm. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding his palms out in a calming gesture that only served to aggravate Sherlock all the more. “Do you, uh.” He let out a long breath. “Do you want to talk?” 

 

Sherlock’s mouth thinned. 

 

“Not now, I mean,” John said quickly. “We probably don’t have time, but, I mean, I-” he let out a long breath, expression controlled. “I want to help. You. I want to help you.” He swallowed. “If that’s all right.” 

 

Just like that, all the anger washed away, and all Sherlock felt was tired.  He pulled the leather glove back onto his hand, and tucked it into his pocket. “I was really only stopping to make sure you’re home,” he said. “I have an appointment to keep, you can join me, if you’d like.”

 

“Of course I’m coming with you,” John said, brow furrowed. “Are we meeting Lestrade as well?” he asked. “You had me send him all this info on Moriarty’s grunt. Is that what we’re doing? Bringing him in?”

 

Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth rise despite everything. “Moran is hardly a grunt.”

 

“Seemed like one to me.” John pursed his lips, as if debating his next words. “You know Lestrade just got back on the job, right? You won’t do anything that might put him in a bad light?”

 

“Just the opposite, John.”

 

“He’s been really ill.” John pressed. “I just wanted to make sure you know, in case it makes a difference.” 

 

“Of course I know,” Sherlock snapped. “It was my fault.”

 

John stared at him mutely for a long moment. Then he asked in a low voice, "How could it  possibly have been your fault?" 

 

Sherlock hissed in anger and frustration. He flung himself onto the nearby sofa, covering his face with his hands. “I misbehaved,” he said through his fingers, and then winced at how idiotic that sounded.  At least it was better than  you’ve been naughty , which was how Jim had put it. “Let me explain.”

 

He took a deep breath. “Jim enjoyed reminding me about our deal. It was your life or mine, always. There were consequences for stepping out of line.” Whatever arbitrary line Jim had happened to draw that day. Sometimes Sherlock didn’t know about a new rule until after he had broken it. Of course, Jim was never one to be rationed with. 

 

“Consequences?” John asked, voice hoarse.  

 

“Nothing too severe, usually,” Sherlock assured. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” This was dangerous ground. 

 

“Physically?” John asked softly. 

 

“Mostly, yes,” Sherlock replied. “But he’d also threaten to hurt you or the others... and then once, he did.” Sherlock bit his lower lip, attempting to stop himself from talking, talking, talking… 

 

“I didn’t know until it was too late,” he said anyway. “I thought Jim would be focusing on  you , not on any of the others, but I think he was saving you for something special.”

 

“I’m chuffed,” John deadpanned. 

 

Sherlock’s lips quirked briefly, but his amusement soon died out. “Mycroft kept a close eye on the four of you afterwards. He had to be careful about it; Jim couldn’t be alerted to what we were up to. He never did try anything else, although in Lestrade’s case, it didn’t really matter, did it?” 

 

John’s voice was quiet. “What exactly happened, Sherlock?”  

 

"They said it was an accidental overdose on pain relievers. Which is suspect under the best of circumstances." Sherlock’s eyes narrowed when John didn’t reply. “You never believed it was accidental, did you?”

 

“No,” John replied with a sigh. “After everything… after  you , can you blame me?” 

 

“Except I never  actually attempted suicide and neither did Lestrade. He was poisoned, because I did something stupid.”  Sherlock’s fist hit the coffee table without his consent. He stared down at his fist. “I didn’t think.” 

 

John let that information sink. “So what  did you do to piss off Moriarty?” 

 

Sherlock blinked, looking up at John. “I punched him.”

 

“You punched him?” John’s eyebrows made a leap to his hairline. 

 

“Dislocated his jaw,” Sherlock imitated a feeble right hook. “He wasn’t too happy about that.” 

 

John chortled suddenly, staring at Sherlock in appreciation. “Well done,” he sniggered. “I think Lestrade would’ve appreciated it too.”

 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer if he didn’t know,” Sherlock said stiffly. 

 

John cleared his throat. Gently, he said, “Probably say it wasn’t your fault, too.” 

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and meant it. “But I’d rather keep wondering.” He let out a long sigh. “What’s done is done. Jim won’t be able to hurt anyone again.” 

 

John licked his dry lips, looking thoughtful. “You know, you keep calling him Jim.”  

 

Taken aback, Sherlock hesitated before he replied, “That’s his name, John.”

 

“It’s just odd that you’re on first name basis with him, that’s all.” John said, tone suggesting that he was trying to pass it off as a joke, although his body language was stiff and nervous.

 

Sherlock snorted. “We had more than enough time to get to know each other.” He climbed up to his feet, patting his coat down for imaginary creases. “Shall we head off, then?” 

 

“To?”

 

“Bart’s Hospital, of course.” 

  
  



	11. The Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! :D This chapter is also a bit rough around the edges, my apologies!

 

**The Friend**

  


Like every man who took pride in his trade, Jim Moriarty maintained his tools himself. An architect of connections and opportunities, he knew how to calibrate a situation, polish a connection, and when to root out a rusty source, least it corrupt the whole system. In short, Jim knew how people ticked, and even better, he knew how to make them tick in his beat.

Over the years, Jim had acquired a wealth of associates, all chosen with great care.  They were a jumpy bunch, Jim’s merry band of thieves, murderers, terrorists, and businessmen of questionable integrity. The ones with the experience and the brains to understand the costs of belonging to Moriarty’s illusive inner circle had developed a sort of a coping mechanism. For them “paranoia” was just a synonym for “self – preservation”. Moriarty was someone to be feared and respected. They knew better than to deny a direct order, even one as basic as “come out, come out, wherever you are.”

It was mad, of course, but madness was becoming of James Moriarty. If only Sherlock could see it all come down. Yet even he couldn’t be in two places at once. At least he had a live feed of the event, courtesy of Mycroft’s assistant. His phone vibrated every other minute, telling him what he already knew: it worked.

Sitting on the back seat beside Sherlock, John was tense.“When you said you’d pick me up,” John muttered,“I didn’t think you meant _a taxi_.”

"Would you have preferred the hearse?" Sherlock didn’t bother to lower his voice, much to John’s dismay. “I still have it, if it’ll make you feel better.” The driver, in the true form of taxi drivers everywhere, didn’t seem at all phased by their exchange.

 

"Bit public, don’t you think? Aren’t you worried that someone might recognise you?” John asked.

 

Of course _that_ got the driver’s attention. He looked up to peer at Sherlock through the rearview mirror. “You famous,mate? I get celebrities all the time. Last week I met Bono. Bono! ‘Course he looks a lot different in real life, but I could tell-”

 

“No one cares,” Sherlock said flatly.

The cabbie harrumphed. He then thumbed his radio volume knob to a maximum, probably in violation of some sort of regulation or another.

 

John sighed loudly, then asked, "Could you turn this down, please?"

 

“No, keep it,” Sherlock injected.

 

 _"I am standing now near Hyde Park Corner; it is literally the closest we could get to the scene, Sean."_ A woman's voice anchored through the radio. _"The gunfire seems to have stopped."_ She paused, and over the bad radio line they could hear sirens. _"We still haven't received any word as to what exactly is happening inside the Berkeley Hotel. An ambulance has been seen making its way out of the area earlier - "_

 

As if on cue, an ambulance's siren blared behind them, and the cabbie pulled to the side to allow it to pass. Two black cars followed closely behind.

 

"Blimey," the cabbie commented.

 

_"- but we can't confirm if there are any casualties…"_

 

"Two, in fact," Sherlock said with a grim smile. "Americans." He arched his eyebrow. "They tried to barricade themselves inside the penthouse. Not that it did them any good.” He rolled his eyes, then added, “I'll need to sell it, I suppose."

 

"Sorry?"

 

"The hotel, I'll need to sell it."

 

"You… own the Berkeley Hotel?" John blinked.

 

"Technically." Sherlock said, and then, “Stop the cab!” he demanded sharply. The cabbie hit the break paddle hard in surprise, throwing them forward with the momentum. Sherlock didn’t wait until the cab came to a full stop before exiting. He stood by the pavement, scanning the area in his usual fashion. Then, as if remembering, started patting his pockets.

"So, you're a millionaire now, are you?" John wondered.

 

"Billionaire, John, this isn't the 1990's.” He winced, and turned to his friend. "Have you any cash?"

A few moments later found them making their way around the area. The street was fairly packed with tired – looking hospital employees, just off the afternoon shift. At Sherlock’s side, John was doing his best impression of a human shield, glaring at anyone who walked too close.

 

“We go around the back,” Sherlock said, taking a sharp turn into an alleyway.  

Sherlock led them to a side door of one of the flocking buildings. Curiously, the heavy door was propped open with a rock, the lock showing signs of recent tampering. An alley cat sped past John as he peered inside. He was greeted by a cloud of sickening sweet smell of rotting waste. Sherlock pushed past John into the garbage room, squeezing past an overflowing bin. Grimacing, John followed.

The building was all but abandoned at that hour, and no one stopped them from making their way to the lobby. Sherlock paused beside a supply closet. He pulled it open, and a man in a security uniform slumped forward, unconscious.

“Hmm.” Sherlock nudged the man with his shoe.

"Sherlock," John warned, kneeling beside the fallen guard.

"Relax, John, it’s nothing he hasn’t signed up for. Make sure he stays put."  He walked toward the lift, summoning it. “Company’s coming, I need you to stay here and distract them for a bit.”

"Where are you going?" John demanded, making as if to follow.

"Stay here," Sherlock stressed. "I'll be-" the word _bait_ nearly passed his lips before he recanted, "-back." He finished as the lift doors closed. Slumping against the back of the lift, Sherlock steeled himself for a confrontation.

If there was something Jim enjoyed, it was the sound of his own voice. He particularly enjoyed reminding Sherlock exactly how thin a thread his friends' lives balanced on. On his bad days, Jim would be quiet, dangerously so. One never knew what sort of mood would take him afterwards. On his good days, however, Jim could natter on for days on end.

John Watson was a favourite subject of his. Perhaps because mentioning John was the surest way to provoke a reaction out of Sherlock. Regardless, at some point Jim had regaled him with the tale of how John had almost died.

Sherlock was supposed to have had a front row seat. It was not a hard leap to deduce Moran as the would-be assassin - Jim always gave Sebastian the jobs dearest to him. The fact of the matter was, that if Sherlock hadn’t jumped from the rooftop that day, he would have seen John’s brain splatter all over the pavement. “Best seats in the house,” was what Jim had said. From there it was nothing but a matter of geometry a bit of architecture. Child’s play.

Sebastian would be using the stairway for his vantage point. He'd be sitting somewhere between the sixth and seventh floor, where he would have the best visibility and the fastest exit route. There he would wait, with a single direct line to his operator, for days on end if need be. Waiting for either a go or abort. Sebastian was good at what he did.

Sherlock exited the lift on the seventh floor. He headed towards the stairway, pausing a moment to listen for movements before making his way inside. A now familiar sight greeted him, and brought a lazy smile to his lips.

“Delighted, as always, Sebastian,” he drawled.

Sebastian’s eyes widened a fraction. The pressure of the barrel against Sherlock’s neck eased when Sebastian lowered the weapon. “I could have shot you!” Moran said, exasperated.

“Fortunately for you, you did not.” Sherlock nodded toward the rifle still laid perched by the open window. “You’re really not supposed to leave your weapon unattended,” he said, clucking his tongue. “Didn’t the army teach you this?”

“Eh, it’s paperweight without this,” Sebastian said, balancing a small metallic component between his pinkie and ring fingers. “And I never go without a spare.” He gestured with the .22 in his hand. “What’re you doing here, James?”

Sherlock stepped towards the ledge, the cool breeze ruffling his fringe. He had excellent view of the premises. Here he had died, and here John almost did as well. Sherlock resisted the urge to nudge Sebastian’s rifle out the window, but only barely. The last time Sebastian had his rifle’s sights set on John, he had been waiting for Jim to give him the final order. This time, he had been waiting for Sherlock’s. He was never going to get it, of course, but he would have waited for a very long time. Sebastian was a trained and hardened sniper – he could sit and wait for days if he needed to.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Sherlock offered as a way of explanation. “I decided I wanted to take Watson out myself… bet I can do it with your gun.”

Sebastian snorted good-naturally. “I’d like to see you try.” He made for the rifle, but was stopped by a single word.

“No,” Sherlock said, “the other one.”

Sebastian blinked in surprise. He looked at his handgun, a .22 mm piece, as if to confirm. “From this distance?” he said. “Impossible.”

“Trust me, Sebastian. I won’t miss.” Sherlock held out an expectant hand.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Sebastian shrugged, and handed Sherlock the gun. “I hope you have an escape plan ready,” he said, unperturbed by the possibility that Sherlock didn’t. Good old Sebastian. Such a good, loyal soldier. Sherlock was going to miss him.

“I always liked you, Sebastian.” The gun felt heavy and solid in Sherlock’s hand. He turned it here and there, examining it casually. "I liked you from the start. Odd, isn't it?"

"I'm flattered," Sebastian said, drawing his words carefully, taking in Sherlock’s flippancy as only one used to James Moriarty could. The others, they stayed in line out of a mixture of fear and respect. Sebastian stayed in line because he trusted Jim to show him the way.

"You've been a good friend to me over the past few weeks," Sherlock said. "So, for that, I’m going to help you. Well, you’ll help me in return. A partnership, if you will.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows furrowed. "What do you need?"

"You're a wanted man," Sherlock said, holding the other’s fast attention. "In fact, you're a war criminal. My brother wants to extradite you in return for some political favours." Sherlock shrugged, uninterested in the details. "I disagree, though, I think you're more useful to us on British soil. Alive," he stressed.

"Your brother is dead. Brook blew his brains out." Sebastian said with raised eyebrows, but he was pale. His hands, always so steady, were trembling. Catching on, then. Good.

"No, Sebastian," Sherlock's smile was kind. The gun he raised wasn’t.

A long silence followed, and then,"Fuck," Sebastian breathed. " _No_. No, how? You couldn’t have possibly known all of those things, there’s no way-” Eyes burning in loathing, he advanced on Sherlock, nostrils flaring.

“Knowing things I couldn’t possibly know is _the point of me_ , Sebastian. Now, that’s far enough.” Sherlock cocked the weapon, and the sound echoed. "There's no chance I'm going to miss from here.”

"So shoot," Sebastian said through gritted teeth, ready to pounce.  "I'll make sure to take you down with me."

"You’ll try." Sherlock nodded. “And then, I’ll have to go and tell Jim how very uncooperative you’ve been. Such a bother.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, but he was listening.

"I knew you'd come around," Sherlock said dryly. He didn't lower the handgun. "As you know, Jim is still alive. He's currently being detained in a secure compound. Tonight, most of our _friends_ will be joining him as well, but you know as well as I do that others remain about.”

Sebastian sneered. “Is that it? You’re worried about payback?” He bared his teeth, reminisce of Jim. “I’ll save you the trouble right now.”

"I’m not worried on my account, you moron," Sherlock snapped. He didn’t have to say the name they were both thinking, the only person who, in one way or another, mattered to them both.

 

Sebastian actually laughed. "You're joking, right?"

  
  
“Hardly.” Sherlock said, and lowered the gun. Sebastian’s eyes followed it, but made no move.

"You know he’s never going to forgive you, Sebastian. Not ever.” Sherlock smiled, relishing in the pained expression that flickred across Sebastian's face. "But you can still help him. You owe him that much, don’t you?”

“How?” Sebastian asked, hoarsely.

Sherlock had been wondering about Sebastian for the longest time. Only lately, when he spent time in Jim's shoes, did he come to an understanding. Sebastian's loyalty to Jim was intense, if misguided. For all his redeeming qualities, Sebastian enjoyed his profession. All too much, in fact, but that wasn't just bloodlust that kept Sebastian heeled by Jim's side. No, Sebastian honestly _loved_ Jim, for reasons Sherlock couldn't quite grasp.

"Plead guilty." Sherlock said, voice low. "Admit you sold out The Network, that you struck a deal with the government for it. If they find Jim lost because he was _stupid_ …” he let that sink in. The people they worked with, the ones still out there, they were dangerous. Fear and respect were a dangerous commodity to lose in that world.

“As of tonight, Jim's going to be back in the spotlight. He won't be untouchable anymore, Sebastian," Sherlock warned. "Not even in a prison cell. Especially not in a prison cell. I can arrange for the two of you to be together." Sherlock paused. "Barring that, in close proximity."  He stared hard into Sebastian's eyes. "You'll be able to protect him. We both know he's not stable enough to do that himself. Not all the time."

Sebastian was breathing hard, and took several moments to respond. "And what about you?"

"Me?" Sherlock's mouth stretched wide, grinning madly. "I'm going back undercover - as Sherlock Holmes."

Sebastian stared at him hard. “Fine,” he said finally. Then he threw his whole weight behind his fist, hitting Sherlock hard enough to make him stumble. “I’ll do it, you sick fuck.”

Sherlock touched his bleeding lip. “There's a good man.”

 

They made their way downstairs without further incident. The sight that greeted them at the lobby was wholly different than the one Sherlock had left. Coppers in uniform, coppers in street clothes, and a fair share of cat-suited “supervisors”, courtesy of Big Brother, who immediately swooped in to apperhand Moran. And with them, grinning like a boy, Greg Lestrade.

"You little shit," Lestrade said, practically bouncing.

"Detective – Inspector," Sherlock said in greeting, and there was no mistaking the warmth in his voice.

Lestrade, beaming, rushed Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock bore it patiently, already learnt from that minor faux pas with John. It wasn't every day that someone came back from the dead. People were going to insist on hugging him. Sherlock might as well put up with that, although he drew the line at Anderson.

Sherlock caught John's eyes over Lestrade's shoulder. "See John? I told you you'd be able to convince him."

"He already told me you called him, Sherlock," John said dryly. He gestured at Sherlock’s still bleeding lip. “You okay?”

"He’ll live. Heh," Lestrade said, pulling back while keeping a hold of Sherlock's shoulders. "You rotten bastard. I almost keeled over from shock."

"John fainted," Sherlock said sweetly.

"I did not," John protested, though rather feebly at that.

"Can't say that I blame you," Lestrade chuckled. "Only you could ever pull this off, Sherlock. I swear to God."

“I didn’t act alone,” Sherlock said. His eyes followed Sebastian, who was already cuffed and about to be manhandled out of the building. “Sebastian,” Sherlock called, taking the steps to face the other man and look him in the eyes. “Thank you. I honestly couldn’t have done it without you.”

Sebastian spat at Sherlock's feet.


	12. The Returned

 

Some things in life were constant. The sun rose in the morning, cats and mice didn’t get along, and little old ladies gathered every Sunday morning at Speedy’s, the little coffee shop next door to 221B.

 

They were usually a lively bunch, but on that particular morning the ladies were positively radiating excitement, which, John suspected, had nothing to do with English breakfasts, and everything to do with the absentee Mrs Hudson, and more to the point, her tenant.

 

“There’s Doctor Watson now!” Marie Turner exclaimed, somewhat to the chagrin of her companions. Her hearing started going off a decade ago, which she’d deny fiercely if asked.

 

John smiled, inclined his head politely, and walked a little faster.

 

A wonderful aroma greeted him at the door. Something freshly baked and probably delicious. Mrs Hudson, bless her, had broken out the kitchen appliances. He took the stairs two at a time, only to find to his disappointment that the entrance to the flat appeared to be blocked.

 

“Um, Mrs Hudson?” John called. The sofa was standing vertically against the entrance, and John pushed at it until he could wedge himself inside, finding the flat in utter disarray.

 

The last time he’d been there, it was clean and tidy. Now it was pure chaos; Sherlock’s endless supply of knick-knacks and memorabilia were strewn across the floor, books were stacked in uneven piles, and the the less said about the furniture, the better. It looked, basically, like a tornado had moved in.

 

Mrs Hudson, as expected, was busying herself in the kitchen. “Yoo-hoo.” She waved a mitten John’s way, smiling brightly. “Oh John, you’ve heard haven’t you?”

 

He nodded, coming for a quick hug and a biscuit. “Making himself at home, is he?” he asked, mouth full.  A sharp “screech!” of dragging furniture nearly made him spew. He shook his head, sincerely sorry for Mrs Hudson’s hardwood floor.

 

Then, remembering the conversation from last night, he said, “don’t worry about charging him for the damages, okay? He, um, he can afford it.” He bent down to pick a picture frame from the floor. “Is there any particular reason he’s tearing the place apart?” he wondered.

 

Before she could reply, Sherlock made his appearance in a blur of limbs and house robe. Ignoring them both, he made a bee-line to the violin, still perched on its stand, a token of order still left in the room. Then, to John’s never ending bafflement and fascination, he stopped to glare at it.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Shhh!” Came the sharp answer. With evident disgust, he picked up the instrument with the pads of his fingers, as if he could not bear to touch it. He shook it once, glared some more, and then - hurled it through the open window. It hit Mrs Hudson’s bin with a horrible crashing sound.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” John cried.

 

Sherlock flashed him with his least reassuring smile. “Termites, John,” he said to his slack-mouthed companion, before disappearing up the stairs.

 

John turned to share an incredulous look with Mrs. Hudson, but she was looking wistfully at the spot Sherlock had just vacated, eyes beginning to mist ever so slightly. “He’s been at it all morning,” she said. “It must have been so awful, he was away for so long at who knows where. All because of that horrible man.” She shuddered.

 

John, a bit winded, righted a chair before sitting down. In a quiet voice, he asked, “did he tell you about that?”

 

She shook her head. “No, but you know how proud he is, it must have been so hard for him. In hiding all this time.”

 

A new voice buttered into the conversation. "It was for your own protection as well, Mrs  Hudson. Moriarty was and is a very dangerous man." Mycroft ambled into the flat, wearing a crease-less three-piece suit that no one had any business wearing on a weekend morning. He was also carrying a large case, his eternal umbrella, and a look of smug achievement.

 

“I’m simply relived he allowed us to protect him.” Mycroft added smoothly. John’s bafflement must have been evident on his face, because Mycroft shot him a pointed look that stopped any questions he might have asked.

 

"Did you bring it?" Sherlock demanded, emerging at the sound of his brother’s voice. He was manic and bedraggled but looked happy like he never looked in Mycroft’s presence.  He grabbed the case Mycroft had brought with him, hugging it to his chest in a rare display of affection before collapsing in a graceful crossed-legged heap on the floor. He then removed the violin from the case with delicate care.

 

John raised both eyebrows. He pointed his thumb at the window. “So that was…”

 

"A prop," Sherlock said. “Obviously, John.” He placed the violin between his jaw and shoulder, mimicking the drawing of a bow.

 

"You're welcome," Mycroft smiled, for once looking and sounding entirely sincere.

 

"Look at you two, back together again," John joked. Turning to Mrs. Hudson, he asked with a smile, "so how did you take it?"

 

"She slapped me," Sherlock piped, eyes still closed in reverence.

 

"You earned it!" Mrs. Hudson shot, laughter in her voice. "Now you three, there's plenty of baked goods to go around." She pointed at Sherlock. "That includes you too, young man. You're just skin and bones."

 

She was right, of course. Except for the way he'd buttoned his shirt all the way up to his neck, Sherlock was dressed in his usual style; a black dress shirt and matching trousers. John was glad to see the scarf and gloves had been forsaken, but even with the house robe on, he looked incredibly thin.

 

_Operation Feed Sherlock is a go_ , he thought.

 

"Well, I shan’t stay." Mycroft announced. "I could barely step out of the office as it was." He studied Sherlock silently for a moment, who continued fondling the air in reverent gestures, and then started to exit, calling as he went, "John, a moment outside?"

 

John followed him down the stairs. Mycroft looked at him contemplatively. "I'm going to have to ask you to spy on him for me," he said, flatly.

 

John smiled without humour. "No."

 

Mycroft hummed, inspecting the all too sharp end of his umbrella. "I thought so. It was worth to try."

 

“Mycroft,” John started. He pointed his finger at the stairs, keeping his voice low. "Is he safe now?"

 

"No." Mycroft said. “No until James Moriarty is fully neutralized.”  

 

"But you have him, he’s not getting away this time." John demanded.

 

Mycroft smiled. Powerful men, leaders of nations, often found themselves straining under that smile. John’s gaze did not waver.  

 

"You will find, John, that I can be very resourceful.” He glanced up the stairs one final time before departing. "Goodbye John," he said, one foot past the door. "Make sure he doesn't do anything exceptionally foolhardy."

 

A gentle melody John did not recognise brought an unexpected lump to his throat. He sighed, making his way back to the flat. He found Sherlock on his feet again, swaying minutely with the music. Mrs Hudson sat watching him, hand to her cheek, eyes misty and far-away.

 

John was not entirely certain when Sherlock had stopped playing, but when he did John found to his surprise that the sun rays from the windows had shifted, and that his eyes were unexpectedly bright as well.

 

He cleared his throat, running a hand to his eyes superstitiously. “Um, was there anything on the news about last night?”

 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in a brief display of amusement, but he did not reply. While Sherlock  busied himself by delicately setting his instrument back in its case, John took the liberty of brushing past him for the television. Surprisingly, it was still in order. Later, John found that Sherlock had taken it apart that very morning, but had put it back together again, minus a small pile of electronics, which Sherlock deemed, "unnecessary."

 

An anchorwoman, one of the high profile ones - a telltale sign of a major story - was speaking, "-some of the world's most nefarious criminals were apprehended in a spectacular operation that lasted throughout the night-"

 

Sherlock snorted. "They were interrupted during supper. It was over in under an hour."

 

"-some of which have been evading arrest since as early as the eighties. We have been hearing rumours of a possible prisoners' exchange in the near future, although details at this point are still vague. Our contacts suggest a key witness, one Colonel Sebastian Moran-" the reported paused, lifting her hand to her earpiece. "I've just been informed that the Prime Minister is preparing to deliver a speech-"

 

"That git," John said, shaking his head. "He's going to take all the credit."

 

"Would you turn it off?" Sherlock said. Done with his task, he righted his leather armchair and sat down in one of his ‘thinking’ poses - hands steepled and gaze distant.

 

"Look, Sherlock, " John exclaimed, though he was promptly ignored. At the bottom of the screen was a scrolling news report:

 

 • MOD confirms Sherlock Holmes alive and well! •

 

"That's all?" John frowned as the text continued to scroll.

 

• Teachers strike enters its fifth day •

 

"A bit anti – climatic, isn’t it?" John said. He narrowed his eyes when a photo of Moriarty was called to the screen, naming him as one of the people who'd been arrested the night before. "Wait..."

 

"In a shocking turn of events, one of the persons taken for custody is none other than James Moriarty," the reporter's voice turned incredulous at the mention of his name. "Previously known as the Crown Jewel Thief, then as Richard Brook, the victim of a ploy by amateur detective Sherlock Holmes, now once again awaits trial under lock and key."

 

"In an even more shocking turn of events, we have received candid reports that Mr Sherlock Holmes, previously thought to be deceased, has resurfaced, alive and well, following Mr Moriarty's arrest. What appears to be the stuff of science fiction, has been confirmed by our contacts at the Ministry of Defence to be true. That Mr Sherlock Holmes, once a fraud, now possibly a victim of circumstances, had spent years in hiding for fear of his life."

 

The camera panned out, allowing the image of Sherlock in one of the deer stalker hats to be displayed beside the reporter.  "Mr. Holmes is currently residing in an undisclosed location" – John snorted – "and has so far been unable to provide a statement." The reporter continued drawling on, but John shook his head in disgust.

 

"That's the angle you’re going with?" John asked. "That you hid till Moriarty was nabbed?"

 

“An angle, John,” Sherlock said in dejected amusement. “But the one that you’ll also put in your blog.”

 

The reporter had returned to the subject of Moriarty, displaying photos and short video clips of him, from his arrest three years ago to the interview he conducted at that same studio almost a year ago.

 

"They don't have any recent photos of him," John said.

 

"Obviously not. He'd been beaten to a pulp. They're going to have to wait until he's properly healed before they can show his face on telly…" Sherlock trailed off, eyes flickering at the screen for the first time.

 

Then he stood, and clapped his hands. “Well, there’s still 37% flat left to sweep. My brother’s voyeuristic tendencies are a public menace. If you want to make yourself useful, John, the pipes in the bathroom still need to be checked. Mrs Hudson, if you’re done weeping, kindly fetch three standard plastic bags and a medium to large steak knife...”

  
  


XXX

From the blog of John H Watson, posted later that night:

 

** The Very Late Sherlock Holmes **

You may have head that Sherlock is alive.

The last few days have been... strange, to say the least. I suppose there’s just no right way of going about this sort of thing. It feels like I’m living in two realities, one where my best friend died, and another where he lived - and I can’t get my head around that it’s both. It’s incredible, impossible, mad. It’s Sherlock.

The thing is that I can’t stay angry with him. He didn’t do it for his own protection, not really. He did for my safety, and for the safety of people I care about. More on that in a bit.

So how did Sherlock survive the jump? You can read all about it on his website, [The Science of Deduction](sorry,%20nothing%20here), which is up and running again. He also included some illustrations and schematics, against my advice. Go ahead and tell him he’s brilliant, but please, for the love of God, don’t try it yourselves.

What I'm trying to say is that the how is easy enough to explain, but the why is a bit more complicated. I’m sorry I can’t really disclose much (thanks to the Official Secrets Act). I’m sure I don’t really understand it all the way, to be frank. What I can say is that Sherlock had been under some sort of witness protection program. He had to lay low until Moriarty could be captured and his criminal organisation exposed. Six feet under kind of low.

Again, thanks to the Official Secrets Act I can’t say too much, but I can tell you that the government had been secretly feeding the media false information about the supposed investigation on Sherlock’s ‘criminal activities’. They wanted to drag Sherlock’s name through the mud, in order to lull Moriarty into a false sense of security. Apparently. I was actually making things worse by keeping this blog.

When I said Sherlock did it for my protection, I meant that literally. Sherlock was supposed to take his own life in exchange for the lives of his friends, yours truly included. If Sherlock hadn’t jumped, I wouldn’t have been here today.  

I actually met the assassin Moriarty sent after me, if you can believe it! His name is Sebastian Moran. Moran was once also a military man, like me, and apparently Moriarty’s wingman. Moran had his rifle’s sights set on me again, but Sherlock saw him coming and delivered him straight into the Yard’s hands. And what do you know, the guy is just who they needed to set the whole thing, because Moran was more than happy to snitch. I suppose Moriarty should have chosen his lackeys more carefully.

It’s a story that deserves its own post, but the short version is that Moriarty and his mates were caught, and they’re going to be locked away for a very, very long time.   

I’m going to take a break from writing this blog, at least for now. It’s not the ending we were working for, but I couldn’t have asked for more. Thank you all, for your faith, support and hard work, and in this case I’m speaking for Sherlock too. Thank you.

 

** 10,000 Comments (Maximum Number Of Comments Reached) **

Finally! I’m been refreshing non-stop all day! STILL CAN’T BELIEVE IT :D :D ;D  
 **Jacob Sowersby 07 July 23:14**   
  
An adequate depiction of the events, but honestly, John, I could practically hear the violin music in the background.   
**Sherlock Holmes 07 July 23:14**

Welcome back, Sherlock! :)  
 **Molly Hooper 07 July 23:14**

Thank you, Molly.   
**Sherlock Holmes 07 July 23:14**

In that case you might want to stop making love to that violin for longer than five minutes. I’m sure your neighbours would appreciate it.   
**John Watson 07 July 23:19**

Are you Jealous, Johnny? :) And Sherlock, welcome back to the land of the living!!! Don’t do it again.   
**Harry Watson 07 July 23:22**

Sherlock Holmes IS James Moriarty!!! Don’t be fooled! Open you’re eyes, people!!!  
 **The-Truth-And-Nothing-But-The-Truth 07 July 23:23**

Your*  
 **Sherlock Holmes 07 July 23:23**

[Comment deleted]  
[User The-Truth-And-Nothing-But-The-Truth has been banned by a moderator]

**The-Truth-And-Nothing-But-The-Truth 07 July 23:25**

Really, Sherlock?   
**John Watson 07 July 23:25**

 

XXX

 

John pushed his laptop away and yawned hugely. He picked up his now empty cup, and took it to the sink. His phone beeped. He stretched, scratched a little behind his ear and looked at the fridge in contemplation, debating on a middle of the night snack. He picked up his phone, absent-minded, and glanced at the incoming message. His blood froze in his veins.

 

_Moriarty's escaped. MH._

__  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha.
> 
> For the record, this chapter should have been posted months ago and I am a horrible person. A horrible person.
> 
> I always had a head-canon that BBC Sherlock’s violin is indeed a Stradivarius, and the story of how he came by it is a fascinating tale, complete with a dash of mystique, a lot of adventure, and a handful of ridiculous plot twists.
> 
> Or maybe he won it on eBay from someone who had no idea what they're selling. Either way, Mycroft thinks such an instrument should have waited for Sherlock in a security vault somewhere and not in a burglar happy neighbourhood.
> 
> You know, this story is very close to my heart, because I've literally spent years going back to it. On one hand I adore it, because it is my playground - but on the other hand, I hate it, because the writing is honestly all over the place and the entire saga needs extensive editing. It might happen one day, but if I wait for that - this story won't ever be brought to completion and there are wonderful amazing people out there who are waiting, and they deserve to have the whole story.
> 
> The next chapter is coming soon. Like, in the next five-ten minutes. Stay tuned.


	13. The Trickster

 

Sherlock was being watched.

He gazed out of one of the sitting room windows, noting the presence of the surveillance van parked just across the road. They weren’t even trying to be discreet. Just the opposite, they were meant to be a deterring presence, and perhaps they were even trying to convey a sense of security for him. He was sure there were other agents with their eyes on the flat which he couldn’t see. It didn’t matter.

Sherlock left the window, and activated the speakers. Musetta's Waltz for violin started blaring at a pre – set volume. In a few minutes Puccini will be replaced with Bach, followed by something of Sherlock’s own composition. There will be an hour long pause, after which the violin music will start again. At three in the morning the music will cut off and the light in the flat will automatically dim.

Sherlock never bothered entertaining himself with magic tricks, even as a young child his interests had lain elsewhere. He did know the techniques, though. Outside the use of extravagant mechanical inventions, lightning fast hand movements and rigorous training that produced nothing but displays of physical endurance – the real secret behind most magic tricks was keeping your audience’s attention fixed at one spot, while the real action happened elsewhere.   

Making sure he could not be spotted through the sitting room windows, Sherlock exited the flat through the kitchen door. He always thought 221B’s layout was absurd, yet oddly charming. He was newly appreciative of the little oddities and quirks the flat had to offer. Perhaps it was an attempt to distract himself from how little the place felt like home. He told himself that the feeling would pass.

He didn’t bother muffling his footsteps. Mrs Hudson’s hip was bothering her more often these days, and the quantities of herbal soothers she used increased in parallel. This late in the evening she’d already retire to her bedroom, and wouldn’t arouse until the early morning hours, long past Sherlock’s return.

Instead of making way to the front door, where he would be immediately spotted and then followed, Sherlock turned toward the entrance to 221C. He pulled a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door to the little basement flat. Back in the day, Sherlock had acquired the key to 221C so he could have access to the amount of mould found within the flat (mould was fascinating) it didn’t take long for him to discover another use for the flat.

This was how 221B Baker Street came to be: years ago, the previous owners, Mr Hudson’s family, had set about splitting the large house in an attempt to make a profit. The house was split in half; one half was sold away, the other divided into flats. That was the reason for 221B’s baker street oddities, its little bits of layout that didn’t make sense.

After stepping inside 221C, Sherlock made sure to close the door behind him. The flat hadn’t changed in his three year absence. Sherlock made a quick beeline to the far end wall, at the place where the wallpaper was bumpy and peeling.

The wallpaper was the coarse, cheap type that didn’t look good brand new, and positively heinous after so many years. It was held up by pins in the places it had come loose, and he made quick work of removing those. He peeled off the remaining wallpaper, revealing the rotting door that separated 221C from their next door’s neighbour’s basement.

Sherlock pushed a broken down table that was blocking his path, and stepped into the neighbour’s basement. Marie Turner, going deaf and twice as loud as an ordinary person for compensation, was still up and about. Following her footsteps by ear, he waited until she’d entered the loo, and then quickly climbed up the stairs, this time making sure to be quiet. Even if she couldn’t hear him, her tenants might. Satisfied that the road was clear, Sherlock quickly strode toward the front door and stepped outside. If Mrs. Turner realised that door was unlocked, she would probably attributed it to her own forgetfulness. If need be, Sherlock could still slip inside the flat through a window. He hoped he wouldn’t have to.

From his viewpoint at Marie Turner’s door, Sherlock could see the surveillance van parked close by.  They wouldn’t notice him there, their attention fixed solely on 221B. He allowed himself a small smile. One doesn’t need quick hands or fancy equipment to make magic tricks. All one needs is an audience with tunnel vision.

With the faint violin music still ringing in his ears - Bach’s Violin Concerto in E major – he walked away

With his hair slicked back and hunched form, no one spared Sherlock more than a customary glance. His simple black suit was a different cut than his usual preference, round at the shoulders with a thin black tie pinned to his padded dress shirt. He walked quickly, though not abnormally so, making long ways through alleys and main streets, avoiding security cameras as a precaution. No one was looking for him, but he’d rather not leave a trail.

After a long hour of seemingly aimless wandering, Sherlock arrived at his destination. He walked around the large, black funeral car that blocked most of the alleyway.  Squeezing past the vehicle, Sherlock unlocked a door almost hidden in the shadows of the poorly lit alley. The door led into a small storage area. The smell of blood and urine swivelled nauseatingly in his nostrils before he managed to shut the door behind him, killing off the little light that seeped inside. The smell of blood lingered, but to that he was more than used to.

He didn’t bother drawing the weapon holstered in his trousers. He doubted the man who occupied the room posed much of a threat. Sherlock reached up to the hanging overhead lamp, illuminating the room with a dull light.

Jim hadn’t moved from where he’d left him yesterday, after their narrow retreat from the military compound Jim had been held in. Getting inside a second time wasn’t a problem, much to Sherlock’s disgust; no one had bothered updating the faulty security protocols that allowed Sherlock to breach the compound the first time. To be fair, this time Sherlock had come in disguise.

Getting out was trickier, as he had to drag Jim’s barely cooperative body out of the compound without being noticed or raising any alarms. He probably wouldn’t have been able to do so if he hadn’t had personally acquired knowledge of the compound, and a few well paid contacts to back him up. Sherlock had paid a hefty fee for the security feed to be hacked. The hacker, a teen prodigy, was still out loose somewhere. Mycroft’s people were on the hunt for him, but until that happened, Sherlock had no qualms about paying for his services.  Mycroft would probably just end up hiring him, anyway.

Jim was still slumped against the wall, where Sherlock had left him the previous night. He didn’t wake up on Sherlock’s entrance, his chest rising and falling with deep, rattling breaths. Sherlock regarded him for a short moment. Jim had lost weight, blood and sweat in Mycroft’s care, and his weeks of torture were evident on his slight frame. He almost looked vulnerable this way, fragile and small. The way he always looked when he slept.

With the toe of his shoe, he nudged Jim’s body, but Jim didn’t stir.  Sherlock sighed and crouched beside him. He took hold of Jim’s shoulder and shook it. “Jim,” he said, voice stern.  

With speed that was remarkable for a man in his condition, Jim’s hand flew to Sherlock’s, circling his wrist with a vice like grip. Jim’s one good eye crinkled upon recognition, and his hold on Sherlock’s wrist slackened, though he didn’t let go. When he smiled, his mouth ranked of blood. Sherlock watched him impassively, remaining crouched by his side.

“Hi there,” Jim breathed in a low voice.  His thumb caressed the inside of Sherlock’s wrist.

“I’ll need that back,” Sherlock said in a sotto voice.

Jim’s smile widened for a short second. He pulled Sherlock’s hand to his lips, placing a small kiss at the pulse point before letting go. Sherlock made no reaction except for a sardonic lift of his eyebrow. Standing back up, he surveyed Jim’s prone form.

He didn’t bother asking irrelevant questions. Like, “how are you feeling?” or even, “did you get any rest?” Instead, he nodded, satisfied that Jim was up, and tossed a backpack by his side.  “Get changed,” he said, not bothering to offer assistance or turn around. He preferred to have Jim where he could see him, injured or not.

Jim struck a lewd pose, knees sliding apart. “Baby, if you wanted a striptease, all you had to do was ask.”

Sherlock didn’t even twitch. “Stop wasting my time, Jim.”

“Prude,” Jim griped good-naturally, beginning to unbutton the front of his stained army fatigues one – handed. Sherlock didn’t wince or offer sympathy at the sight of the bruises that littered Jim’s chest and torso. Jim never gave him the same courtesy, after all.

“The plane will be leaving with or without you,” Sherlock added. “So I suggest you hurry.”

Jim was taking his time, movements slowed by his injuries and his awkward sitting position, not to mention his complete disregard for his nudity. “You could always help me out,” Jim suggested, slinking out of trousers that had seen better days.

“Jim,” Sherlock warned in a stern voice.

Jim smile disappeared briefly when he pulled the light black shirt over his head. “I never doubted you for a second,” he said in a soft voice. “I knew you’d come for me.”

Sherlock laughed. It was a dark, bitter laugh that didn’t fit him. “Dear me, Jim. What precisely do you think is happening?”

“Raw, bittersweet sentiment, my dear.” Jim’s smile widened, the way it did when Sherlock did something to greatly amuse him. “When did you work it out?” Jim wondered, mouthing the words slowly, like he intended to savour them. In a throaty whisper he added, “That Brother Dear was going to kill poor old me?”

Sherlock bent down at the waist, one hand coming to rest on the wall by Jim’s face. He brought their faces close, ignoring the smell of blood wafting from Jim’s mouth. “Perhaps I wanted the honour of killing you myself?”

Jim tilted his head here and there, studying Sherlock from his disadvantaged perch on the floor. It didn’t seem to matter to him. He acted as though he was the one in control of the situation – in spite of his weakened condition and apparent vulnerability. Sherlock could have hated him for it. Should have hated him for it.

Jim murmured, “I would have done the same for you.”

Sherlock straightened, expressionless mask in place once more. “I’m not setting you free, Jim.”

“Oh?”

“There are… conditions,” Sherlock started. "You’ll hear them only once. Do I have your attention?"

"Always," Jim whispered.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “This is where we part. You do not attempt to contact me, my brother, John or anyone else.  Anyone.” Sherlock smiled sardonically. “And I will be watching you, Jim. There’s no place on earth where you can hide from me now.”

He continued, not waiting for Jim’s reply. “Secondly, you will abide by your… handlers. You will not attempt to harm them, and you will not attempt to escape. At the first sign of trouble, the deal is off. Do you understand?”

Jim said nothing, merely watched Sherlock with his one good eye.

“I asked, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Jim murmured.

“You will receive medical attention upon landing,” Sherlock gave a small nod.

Jim said nothing. A small, aggravating smile played over his lips.

“Now get up.” Sherlock gestured to the door, with the funeral car parked just outside. “Your chariot awaits,” he said dryly.

“Aren’t you going to help me?” Jim sang, grinning up at Sherlock.

“The damsel act doesn’t suit you, Jim.” Sherlock bit out. “Get up.”

Jim did, rising on shaking feet and using the wall for support. It was comforting at least, that his body couldn’t be so easily controlled. Mycroft must have known this senseless torture would be fruitless, but Sherlock didn’t think he cared at all.

Jim stumbled then, and without thinking, Sherlock made a lunge for him, catching him before he could tumble to the floor.

“Oops,” Jim breathed, smirking up at Sherlock. It died as he gazed down, and saw the needle sticking out of his thigh.

"You didn't really think I'd trust you to be cooperative?" Sherlock murmured, keeping a firm grip on Jim as he began to sway dizzily, taken over by the powerful paralytic drug.

“Goodbye Jim.”

  
  
  



End file.
